MRS.  W.  K.  GHFFQRD 


THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918, 

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University  of  Illinois  Library 


Love  Letters 
Of  a Worldly  Woman 

BY 

Mrs.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD, 

AUTHOR  OF  “ MRS.  KEITH’S  CRIME,’’  ETC. 

44  Wherefore?  Heaven's  gif t takes  earth's  abatement?'* 


NEW  YORK: 

OPTIMUS  PRINTING  COMPANY, 

45, 4 7, 49  and  51  Rose  Street. 


CONTENTS. 


A MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE  - 
LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN 
ON  THE  WANE 


PREFACE. 


These  be  three  women  who  loved  the  world:  not 
meaning  (at  least  two  of  them)  the  pomps  and 
vanities,  but  the  round  world  itself  and  the  people 
who  belong  to  it.  All  had  the  bandage  lifted  from 
their  eyes,  and  as  they  became  wise  proved  how 
sad  a thing  is  wisdom.  The  first  tried  to  comfort 
herseff  with  dreams,  and  waits,  hoping  that  they 
will  find  their  way  into  the  waking  hours.  The 
second  played  an  eager,  restless  game,  staking  all 
her  happiness  on  it,  and  perhaps  gained  most  when 
she  had  lost  it.  The  third  looked  up  at  sorrow, 
and,  seeing  a little  way  beyond,  set  out  on  a 
journey  ; but  she  does  not  know  yet  where  it  will 
end.  And  the  moral  is — but  morals  are  depressing 
even  if  they  are  edifying  : let  us  leave  them  to  the 
Preacher.  L.  C. 

Love  Letters  of  a Worldly  Woman. 


FAGE 

3 

- 32 

- 160 


Miscxy 


Li)  i -JL 


A MODERN  CORRESPONDENCE. 


I. 

SHE. — ON  THE  DULLNESS  OF  GOODNESS. 

It  is  a long  time  since  we  met — long,  that  is,  as  we 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  measuring  time  lately — nearly 
a month.  Two  months  and  meeting  every  day,  often 
twice  a day,  but  never  missing  once  ; then  a little  pause, 
a flagging,  a going- to- town,  and  two  days  apart — days 
that  were  hard  to  bear  for  both  of  us ; then  a week,  now 
a fortnight.  At  first  your  letters  compensated  me  ; now 
they  do  not.  Are  they  colder  ? I do  not  know.  Not 
in  words,  perhaps,  but  they  do  not  send  a rush  of  joy 
through  me  as  they  did  a little  while  since.  They  seem 
to  come  from  your  intellect,  your  good-nature,  that 
would  not  like  me  to  feel  neglected,  your  affectionate 
disposition,  not  from  your  heart.  Are  you  beginning  to 
turn  restive,  to  think  things  over,  to  wonder  how  it  was 
we  found  the  past  so  sweet  that  we  were  content  to  spend 
whole  days  by  the  riverside,  talking  the  driftless  dreamy 
talk  of  happiness,  or  silently  watching  the  river  as  it 
went  on,  seeking,  perhaps,  the  place  which  a little  later 
our  feet  would  know — but  not  together. 

I remember  your  telling  me  once — was  it  with  dim 
foreboding  of  a future  that  now,  perhaps,  draws  near? 

(3) 


4 LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

— that  women  took  things  more  seriously  than  men. 
They  are  the  foolish  women.  I am  going  to  be  wise— 
to  remember  as  long  as  you  remember,  and  forget  as 
soon.  I think  I am  doing  so  already — if  you  are.  Why 
should  man,  who  is  strong,  always  get  the  best  of  it,  and 
be  forgiven  so  much ; and  woman,  who  is  weak,  get  the 
worst  and  be  forgiven  so  little?  Why  should  you  go  and 
laugh  and  be  merry,  and  I stay  waiting  and  listening  ? 
But  this  shall  not  be,  for  I am  not  the  woman  to  sit  and 
weep  while  the  world  is  wide  and  the  days  are  long,  and 
there  are  many  to — to  love  me  ? I do  not  know ; to 
come  and  make  a sweet  pretence  of  love ; and  who  shall 
say  how  much  or  how  little  heart  will  be  in  it  ? It  is 
delightful  to  be  a woman — yes,  even  in  spite  of  all 
things;  but  to  be  a weak  woman,  and  good  with  the 
goodness  invented  for  her  by  men  who  will  have  none  of 
it  themselves ; no,  thank  you.  It  is  a sad  mistake  to 
take  things  seriously,  especially  for  women  (which  sounds 
like  a quotation  from  Byron,  and  is  almost),  but  it  is  a 
mistake  that  shall  not  be  mine.  Let  us  keep  to  the  sur- 
face of  all  things,  to  the  to-day  in  which  we  live,  for- 
getting the  yesterdays,  not  dreaming  of  to-morrows. 
The  froth  of  the  waves,  the  green  meadows  and  the 
happy  folk  walking  across  them  laughing ; the  whole 
world  as  it  faces  the  sky:  beneath  are  only  the  deep 
waters,  the  black  earth,  the  people  sorrowing  in  their 
houses,  the  dead  sleeping  in  their  graves.  What  have 
we  who  would  laugh  in  common  with  these  ? Nothing. 

Dear,  your  letters  have  grown  too  critical,  too  intel- 
lectually admiring.  You  said  in  one  of  them  last  week 
that  you  reverenced  me  for  my  goodness.  I do  not  want 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 5 

reverence ; it  goes  to  passion’s  funeral.  And  I do  not 
want  to  be  good  either,  for  that  means  a person  knowing 
all  her  own  possibilities  and  limits.  It  is  only  of  the 
base  and  mean  things  that  one  should  know  one’s  self 
utterly  incapable ; for  the  rest  it  is  better  to  give  one!s 
nature  its  fling,  and  let  it  make  a walk  for  itself,  good  or 
bad,  as  its  strength  grows. 

Good  ! Oh,  but  I am  glad  to  be  far  from  that  goal. 
No  woman  who  is  absolutely  and  entirely  good,  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  gets  a man’s  most  fervent, 
passionate  love,  the  love  beside  which  all  other  feelings 
pale.  A wear-and-tear  affection,  perhaps,  tideless  and 
dull,  may  be  her  portion,  but  it  is  not  for  good  women 
that  men  have  fought  battles,  given  their  lives,  and  staked 
their  souls.  To  be  good,  to  know  beforehand  that,  under 
any  given  circumstances,  one  would  do  the  right  thing, 
would  stalk  along  the  higher  path  of  moral  rectitude, 
forever  remembering  and  caring  above  all  things,  for 
one’s  own  superiority,  while  the  rest  of  the  world  might 
suffer  what  it  would ; it  appalls  me  to  think  of  it.  Be- 
sides, how  deadly  dull  to  herself  must  the  good  woman 
be,  how  limited  her  imagination,  how  sober  her  horizon ; 
she  knows  her  own  future  so  well  there  is  little  wonder 
she  grows  dowdy  living  it.  To  feel  that  there  is  no  un- 
expectedness in  her  nature,  nothing  over  which  to  hold 
a rein,  to  know  that  no  moment  can  come  when,  forget- 
ting all  else,  she  will  give  herself  up  to  the  whirlwind 
that  may  overtake  her  in  a dozen  forms,  and  then,  if 
need  be,  pay  the  price  without  flinching  and  without 
tears.  For  tears  and  repentance  and  reformations  are  all 
the  accompaniments  of  goodness  that  once  in  its  weak- 


6 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


ness  is  overcome.  How  I loathe  them  and  the  expiation 
with  which  some  women  would  bleach  their  souls.  Did 
you  ever  stop  to  think  what  expiation  means  ? Probably 
some  monkish-minded  ancestor  who  was  addicted  to 
scourging  himself  putting  his  ghostly  finger  across  one’s 
brain,  and  so  waving  his  torturing  lash  down  through  the 
ages.  Give  me,  then,  the  strength  to  raise  my  head  and 
say,  “ Yes,  it  was  I,  and  I will  pay  the  price  cheerfully, 
for  the  joy  of  remembering  will  sustain  me  to  the  end, 
and  repentance  I have  none.” 

I wonder  if  husbands  are  so  often  unfaithful  because 
their  wives  are  good  ? I think  so.  They  cannot  stand 
the  dreary  monotonies  and  certainties.  They  give  them 
affection  and  reverence — and  go  to  the  women  who  are 
less  good,  and  love  them.  I wonder  if  the  wholly  good 
men,  are  the  best  loved?  Not  they.  They,  too,  like 
the  good  woman,  are  treated  to  the  even  way  of 
dull  affection.  The  bravest  men,  the  strongest,  the 
most  capable  to  do  great  deeds  when  the  chance 
comes,  and  of  waiting  for  the  chances  as  best  they  can  : 
they  are  the  best  loved.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  mystery  that 
lies  in  people  as  in  fate  that  is  the  fascination — the 
wondering,  the  toss-up  whether  it  will  be  good  or  bad  to 
us  or  to  others.  For  this  makes  life  keen  living  and  love 
a desperate  joy.  It  is  so  with  the  whole  of  humanity. 
Say  what  we  will  for  goodness — and  in  the  abstract  it  is 
the  soul’s  desire  of  most  of  us — the  world  would  be  a 
dull  place  to  live  in  if  all  the  wickedness  were  stamped 
out  ; too  dull  to  satisfy  mortal  men  and  women.  We 
may  owe  our  solid  happiness  to  the  good,  but  we  owe 
life’s  color  and  variety  and  excitement  to  the  wicked  : 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  7 

never  let  us  underrate  them.  Are  you  shocked,  cher 
ami  ? But  in  these  latter  days  we  have  taken  to  writ- 
ting  sermons  to  each  other.  Mine,  at  least,  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  genuine.  If  it  does  not  please  you  I 
cannot  help  it.  I would  not  have  you  even  always 
pleased,  for  it  would  bore  me  sadly.  You  asked  me 
once  (do  you  remember  the  long  grass  was  dipping  in 
the  river,  and  I watched  it  while  you  spoke),  “ if  I 
would  always  be  the  same?”  I answered,  Yes — un- 
truthfully enough,  but  I could  not  help  it.  Would  I 
have  you  always  the  same  ? 

I ask  myself,  as  I sit  here ; and  the  answer  comes  to 
my  lips  quickly,  Not  I.  Hot  and  cold,  a stir  to  one’s 
pulse,  a chill  to  one’s  heart,  a formal  word  that  makes 
one’s  lips  close  as  though  ice  had  frozen  them,  a whisper 
that  sets  one’s  blood  tingling  with  sudden  joy.  All  this 
is  life  and  love,  not  vegetation  and  affection. 

Don’t  think  I do  not  long  after  good  things.  Oh,  my 
dear,  do  we  not  all  long  after  them,  and  so  sanctify  our 
souls  that  are  not  able  to  do  more.  It  is  so  easy  to  sit 
at  the  base  of  a tower  and  wish  we  stood  on  the  top ; it 
is  another  thing  to  climb  it  little  step  by  little  step.  If 
one  could  be  hauled  up  in  some  strange  dangerous  fash- 
ion it  would  be  worth  doing,  though  one  risked  one’s 
neck  by  the  way.  So  if  by  a few  great  deeds  one  could 
reach  the  heights,  who  that  has  any  fire  in  his  soul 
would  not  do  them,  though  they  crushed  the  life  out  of 
him  for  a time — nay,  though  he  died  by  the  way  ? But 
the  unvarying  goodness  of  daily  life,  one  day  as  like  an- 
other as  one  step  is  like  another ; and  the  getting  to  the 
top  of  one’s  moral  plateau  at  last — for  what  ? For  some 


8 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

abstract  praise,  some  measured  admiration,  while  those 
one  loved  best  felt  most  one’s  far-offness  from  themselves. 
It  would  be  like  the  chilly  tower-top,  standing  there 
alone,  the  wind  sweeping  past,  the  world  below  going 
merrily  by,  unheeding.  Is  it  worth  it  ? No.  Preach 
no  more  of  goodness  to  me ; and  as  for  reverence,  keep 
it  for  the  saints. 

You  have  provoked  all  this  from  me  with  your  dreary, 
unsatisfying  letter,  and  your  half-finished  sentence, 
“■And  in  the  future” — Why  did  you  stop?  Did  you 
fear  to  go  on  ? Well,  and  in  the  future  ? Do  you 
think  any  woman  will  love  you  as  I have  loved  you  ; will 
forget  you  as  completely  as  I will  forget  if  I choose; 
will  scorn  you  as  well  if  it  comes  to  it ; will  be  as  con- 
stant or  as  fickle,  as  passionate  or  as  cold  ? It  may  be, 
but  I think  not,  for  my  strange  heart  is  given  to  the 
Fates  to  wring  with  what  agony  they  will,  or  to  fill  to 
the  brim  with  joy,  and  out  of  either  I can  give  lavishly. 

Do  you  understand  me  ? I doubt  it.  I stand  here  by 
the  gate  of  many  things,  wondering  if  the  latch  shall  be 
left  up — or  down  forever.  For  when  the  summer-day  is 
done  the  twilight  comes,  sweet  enough  for  the  dawdlers 
who  would  sit  and  dream  alone,  but  not  for  me  with  the 
wild  blood  dancing  through  my  veins.  Draw  down  the 
blinds,  say  I,  and  bring  the  flaring  lights ; the  guests  of 
the  day  may  go,  but  the  guests  of  the  night  will  come — 
ready  to  begin  what  perhaps  you  are  ready  to  end.  In 
the  beginning  are  life  and  promise  and  love;  but  in  the 
end?  In  the  end  one  lies  down  to  die — and  forget. 
Good-bye. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  9 
II. 

HE. — AN  OFFER  OF  MARRIAGE. 

My  Dearest  Girl, — You  know  I never  comprehend 
your  letters ; but  perhaps  that  is  one  reason  why  I like 
them.  I never  altogether  comprehend  you,  which  is 
also  perhaps  the  reason  why  I love  you,  for  I do  upon 
my  soul  I do,  in  spite  of  the  nonsense  you  talk  about  af- 
fection and  vegetation  and  wickedness,  and  the  rest  of 
it.  I sometimes  feel  as  if  you  had  taken  me  for  some 
one  else  when  I read  your  letters — some  one  you  had  set 
up  and  thought  to  be  me.  It’s  odd,  but  I used  to  have 
the  same  sort  of  feeling  in  the  summer,  when  you  seemed 
to  see  from  one  direction  and  I from  another.  I don’t 
want  you  to  make  that  kind  of  mistake,  dearest ; it 
would  be  a bad  lookout  for  me  if  you  did.  Now,  let  us 
speak  plainly,  have  things  out,  and  be  done  with  it; 
then  it  will  be  plain  sailing,  and  we  shall  both  be  better 
for  it — better,  anyhow,  than  if  we  went  on  with  fine 
words  and  vague  phrases  for  a twelvemonth. 

If  my  letters  have  been  cold  lately,  or  seemed  so,  it 
has  not  been  that  I have  not  cared  for  you,,  or  don’t,  as 
much  as  during  all  those  jolly  days  by  the  river,  when 
we  were  too  lazy  to  talk  even  about  ourselves.  But  you 
know  one  can’t  be  always  at  high  pressure ; besides,  I 
am  getting  on,  and  though  one  may  still  be  able  to  talk 
nonsense  occasionally,  and  in  the  country,  yet  after  the 
turn  of  five-and-thirty  a man  isn’t  so  ready  to  go  on 
with  it  when  he  is  once  more  back  in  town,  among  peo- 
ple, and  planning  his  life,  as  I am.  This  doesn’t  make 
me  less  sincere,  mind  ; I like  you  better  than  any  one 


10  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN, 

else,  I expect,  but  I am  a good  deal  taken  up  with  other 

matters.  I am  anxious  about  Carpeth.  K is  certain 

that  I have  a good  chance  of  getting  in,  and  I seriously 
contemplate  standing.  Of  course,  as  you  already  know, 
I don’t  care  a straw  about  politics,  and  should  never  at- 
tempt to  talk ; still,  getting  into  Parliament  is  a respect- 
able sort  of  thing  to  try  for — unless  you  are  a Radical ; 
gives  you  influence  in  the  country,  and  so  on.  Then  I 
am  bothered  about  those  beggars  and  their  farms.  I re- 
member telling  you  that  they  wanted  their  rents  lowered, 
rather  unfairly,  I think.  Then  my  mother  is  always  at 
me  to  settle  down — before  she  dies,  she  says,  having  a 
fancy  that  that  won’t  be  long,  though  I hope  with  all  my 
heart  it  will ; and  she  wants  me  to  marry  my  cousin 
Nell.  I like  Nell  well  enough,  and  no  doubt  we  should 
jog  along  comfortably  together,  but  I am  much  fonder  of 
you,  though  if  you  throw  me  over  I dare  say  I shall  try 
my  chance  with  Nell.  So  you  see  there’s  been  some  ex- 
cuse for  pre-occupation  in  my  letters. 

In  spite  of  what  you  say  I do  reverence  for  you  for 
your  goodness.  Look  what  a brick  you  were  to  your 
brother  and  his  wife  last  year,  and  I know  if  you  marry 
me  that  you  will  make  me,  as  you  would  any  man  you 
loved,  a good  and  true  wife.  Be  the  sensible  girl  I have 
always  thought  you,  and  write  and  say  it  is  all  right,  and 
I will  tell  the  mater  at  once,  and  let  us  get  married  as 
soon  as  Carpeth  is  settled.  Don’t  think  I have  ceased  to 
care  for  you  because  I don’t  write  you  sentimental  let- 
ters, or  see  you  twice  a day,  as  I did  at  Wargrave,  where 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  loaf  round  and  hang 
about  the  river  till  dinner  time. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  11 


While  I think  of  it,  what  I meant  by  “and  in  the 
future,"  was  just  in  effect  what  I have  said  here,  only 
somehow  I could  not  get  it  to  the  tip  of  my  pen  then  as 
I do  now.  Of  course  we  went  on  at  a rapid  rate  this 
summer,  but  you  see  we  were  thrown  a good  deal  on 
each  other,  and  there’s  always  something  enticing  in  the 
river,  and  the  willow-weed,  and  the  towing-path,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it.  I am  really  awfully  fond  of  you,  too,  and 
when  a man  is  alone  with  a woman  he  likes,  and  noth- 
ing particular  besides  on  his  mind,  he  would  be  a duffer 
if  he  didn’t  run  on  a bit.  Still,  I am  not  a very  ro- 
mantic sort ; when  I was  two-and-twenty  I had  rather  a 
quencher  with  that  girl  I told  you  of  once;  she  cut  up 
rough  after  playing  the  fool  with  me  to  the  top  of  my 
bent,  and  that  has  done  its  work.  Besides,  talk  as  you 
will  about  affection,  it’s  the  best  thing  to  get  married 
on  ; blazing  passion  fizzles  out  pretty  soon  and  leaves 
precious  little  behind.  It  says  a good  deal  for  the 
strength  and  genuineness  of  my  feeling  for  you  that,  af- 
ter the  speed  of  last  summer,  I can  still  in  the  cool  of 
the  autumn  declare,  as  I do,  that  I am  sincerely  fond  of 
you. 

Of  course  I know  that  if  I am  matter-of-fact  you  are 
the  reverse,  but  if  you  won’t  be  angry  at  my  saying  so, 
I think  that  comes  of  the  life  you  lead.  Living  with  a 
brother  and  sister-in-law,  and  no  settled  place  in  the 
house  or  home  of  your  own,  shutting  yourself  up  with 
books,  or  stealing  off  to  some  quiet  spot  to  read  them, 
and  going  out  all  night  when  you  are  in  town  and  being 
told,  no  matter  where  you  are,  by  half  a dozen  fellows 
that  they  are  in  love  with  you ; that  can’t  be  a healthy 


12  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

sort  of  life  for  any  woman.  You  will  lead  a far  better 
and  more  natural  one  if  you  settle  down  with  me  as  I 
hope  you  will. 

Now,  write  me  a long  letter  and  tell  me  all  that  is  in 
your  heart  and  mind  about  this.  Let  me  know  just  what 
you  think,  for  I could  never  for  the  life  of  me  quite  make 
out  what  you  were  driving  at  when  we  were  together. 
But,  above  all,  tell  me  that  you  love  me,  as  you  did  in 
the  summer  when  you  put  your  head  down  on  my  arm 
and  yet  would  never  say  the  plain,  honest  “Yes”  I 
tried  to  extract  from  you.  Then  I will  somehow  make 
time  to  run  down  on  Saturday  and  stay  till  Monday,  as 
I long  to  do.  Good-night,  my  dear  one. — Ever  yours. 

P.  S. — Let  me  hear  by  return  if  you  can,  for  I have  a 
good  deal  of  anxiety  one  way  and  another,  and  shall  be 
glad  to  get  this  off  my  mind. 

III. 

SHE. — SOME  VIEWS  ON  MARRIAGE. 

Get  it  off  your  mind  by  all  means.  I would  not 
marry  you  for  the  world.  Marry  your  cousin  Nell,  with 
whom  you  will  jog  along  well  enough ; go  in  for  Car- 
peth  ; raise  or  lower  your  tenant's  rent,  and  settle  down 
to  your  uneventful  life  without  me.  It  would  drive  me 
mad.  There  is  enough  of  nothing  in  your  heart  or  soul 
to  satisfy  me.  I like  you  ; I have  loved  you — perhaps  I 
do  still ; but  marry  you — no ; for  I should  surely  run 
away,  and  before  a year  was  over,  if  it  were  only  to  hide 
in  a dim  corner  with  amused  eyes  to  watch  your  per- 
plexity. I see  how  good  you  are,  manly  and  straight- 
forward— all  that  and  more ; but  to  settle  down  with  you 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  13 

— to  know  the  end  of  my  days  almost  as  well  as  the  be- 
ginning ; to  live  through  the  long,  dull,  respectable 
years  with  you — no,  thank  you.  You  must  marry  your 
cousin  Nell  ; and  I,  if  I marry  at  all,  will  marry  a man 
whose  future  is  not  unrolled,  like  yours,  before  my  eyes 
— some  one  who  has  it  in  him  to  leave  the  world  richer 
than  he  found  it,  who  will  teach  it,  or  beautify  it,  or 
make  it  ,in  some  way  better  because  he  has  been.  For 
men  who  do  this  are  the  masters  of  the  world,  and  men 
like  you,  rich  or  fairly  rich,  good,  plodding,  and  pains- 
taking, are  their  servants.  They  enjoy  your  acres, 
which  you  keep  trim  for  them ; your  houses,  the  doors 
of  which  open  wide  to  receive  them ; and  they  pay  you 
wages  in  she  shape  of  benefits  you  get  from  their  genius. 
Yes,  you  will  marry  your  cousin  Nell,  go  into  Parlia- 
ment, helping  your  country  with  vote  or  presence — for 
that  is  how,  as  you  indicate,  your  political  capacity  will 
be  bounded  ; you  will  enjoy  your  easy-going  life,  and 
die  when  your  turn  comes.  You  will  do  no  work  that 
others  could  not  do  equally  well,  and  never  fret  or  fire 
your  soul  with  more  than  a little  anxiety,  a little  fatigue 
or  vexation  ; and  even  these  will  calm  down  or  be  for- 
gotten with  your  first  teaspoonful  of  soup  at  dinner — 
your  dull,  well-mannered  dinner  of  five  courses  with  the 
salad  and  the  savory  left  out.  Oh,  my  dear,  whom  I 
loved  through  all  the  long,  still  days  of  this  past  sum- 
mer, what  a revelation  your  letters  have  been  to  me.  I 
should  go  mad  if  I married  you.  No  ; if  I marry  at  all, 
it  must  be  to  some  one  who  works — works  truly,  not  for 
himself  and  for  his  own  position  or  respectability’s  sake, 
but  for  the  work’s  sake  and  the  world’s  sake ; a man 


14  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

who  is  a part  of  the  great  machinery  that  models  the 
future  ages;  not  a mere  idler  by  its  wheels  hanging 
about,  amusing  himself  for  his  day,  dying  when  his  turn 
comes,  and  leaving  no  trace  behind.  There  are  crowds 
of  these,  well  enough  in  their  way,  with  their  cheery 
voices  and  pleasant  faces ; let  the  other  women  marry 
them.  The  world  would  be  a terrible  place  if  it  were 
made  up  entirely  of  the  minority  towards  which  my  soul 
leans.  There  would  be  all  to  work,  but  none  to  work 
for;  all  to  give,  and  none  to  receive.  Yes,  the  world  is 
well  for  the  like  of  you,  for  the  majority  that  takes  life 
easily,  battling  a little  for  itself  and  its  own,  leaving  the 
workers  to  build  up  the  world  ; but  it  is  to  these  last  that 
my  heart  goes  out.  A soldier  who  has  fought  for  his 
own  land,  and  so  helped  its  people  ; a thinker  who,  un- 
seen himself,  has  swayed  vast  numbers ; a law-giver  who 
has  devised  the  codes  by  which  coming  races  may  guide 
themselves  ; a traveler  who  makes  the  first  lonely  track 
into  the  unknown  land,  and  then  comes  back  to  direct 
the  road-makers  how  to  work  on  towards  the  great  city 
that,  but  for  him,  would  have  been  unsuspected — any 
one  of  these  holds  in  his  hand  the  seed  of  immortality. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  leaders  who  have  it.  The  poet 
who  writes,  and  the  singer  who  sings,  the  words  the  sol- 
diers hear  as  they  march  by ; the  beggar  who  sits  starv- 
ing in  his  garret,  all  the  while  creating  that  for  which 
the  whole  world  will  rejoice,  though  he  dies  or  goes  into 
the  crowd  not  knowing,  letting  others  get  the  reward  of 
his  work ; the  martyr  who  keeps  his  lips  shut  and  will 
not  cry  out  lest  others  should  lose  heart ; all  these,  too — 
these  are  the  masters  who  prove  that  greatness  is  a thing 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  15 

that  must  be  put  outside  one's  self  to  live.  With  one  of 
these  there  would  be  life  with  its  promises  and  possibili- 
ties, a chance  to  help,  though  it  were  only  by  serving 
the  worker  as  his  servant.  Bitter  grief,  keen  disappoint- 
ment, throbbing  pain  might  come ; what  then  ? It  is 
for  their  alternatives  one  makes,  and  what  chance  of 
them  would  there  be  along  your  monotonous  way  ? And 
with  all  rfiy  longings  and  ambitions,  and  all  that  they 
would  mean,  would  the  present  friendships  that  some 
men  give  their  wives,  that  you  in  fact  offer  me,  suffice? 
And  the  realities  of  your  life,  would  they  satisfy  me? 
Not  quite.  I should  go  away.  I remember  being  told 
of  a woman  who  said  she  would  rather  have  the  one 
true  passionate  devotion  of  the  worst  man  that  ever  lived 
than  all  the  affection  and  respect  and  regard — but  these 
only — that  the  best  could  give.  I did  not  understand 
her  then.  I do  now.  For  the  first  has  in  him  the  fire 
that  may  any  day  leap  upward  ; but  the  other  has  only 
an  even  light  by  which  one  would  see  to  everlastingly 
measure  and  excuse  him.  Beside  the  first  one  might 
walk  through  hell  unheeding  its  flames ; beside  the  last 
heaven  itself  would  be  monotonous.  This  is  what  I meant 
in  scoffing  at  goodness ; what  I mean  now  in  turning* 
almost  with  a shudder,  from  the  idea  of  being  your  wife, 
even  though  I still  have  some  lingering  love  for  you. 
The  boundaries  of  goodness  are  known  well  enough,  but 
in  the  bare  possibilities  of  their  being  broken  down 
there  is  a strange  uncertain  vista  that  fascinates  me.  It 
is  the  unknown  quantities,  the  mysteries,  that  set  one 
thinking  and  make  one  eager.  Is  not  the  world  itself 
round,  so  that  we  see  but  a little  way  ahead  ? How, 


16  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


then,  can  you  expect  me  to  accept  my  portion  of  it  so 
flattened  and  laid  out  before  me  that  I can  almost  see  the 
whiteness  of  my  own  tombstone  at  the  other  end  ? No, 
let  us  end  it  all.  Go  to  your  life ; leave  me  to  mine. 

Marriage  between  us  is  not  possible.  A service  might 
be  read  over  us,  one  roof  might  cover  us,  one  name 
identify  us;  but  this  would  not  be  marriage — only  a 
binding  together  by  a ceremony  made  for  those  not 
strong  enough  to  stand  by  each  other  without  it,  which 
in  the  eyes  of  the  outer  world,  would  make  us  man  and 
wife,  yet  in  our  own  hearts  leave  us  miles  apart.  The 
most  dreamy  of  relationships  might  be  marriage  rather 
than  this ; nay,  I can  imagine  it  existing  between  two 
people  who  meet  but  half  a dozen  times  in  their  lives, 
who  never  touch  hands,  who  but  dimly  remember  each 
other’s  faces,  and  yet  whose  hearts  and  souls  steal  out  in 
the  silence  towards  each  other  and  meet  in  some  strange 
fashion  not  known  to  ordinary  men  and  women — an 
aching,  almost  passionate  love,  that  has  nothing  physical 
in  it,  and  that  seeks  no  human  symbol  for  expression 
save  that  which  puts  itself  forth  in  their  work.  Even 
this  would  satisfy  me  better  than  what  you  offer  me,  in 
which  there  would  be  the  ever  longing  for  more  than 
you  could  even  comprehend.  And  yet  it  would  not 
satisfy  me.  I am  not  Idealist  enough,  nor  poet  neither. 
I am  a woman,  and  alive  to  my  finger  ends ; and,  if  I 
am  loved  at  all,  would  be  loved  wholly  and  altogether, 
as  a man  who  is  alive,  too,  and  part  of  the  living  world, 
knows  how  to  love.  I want  a face  that  satisfies  me  to 
look  at,  a voice  to  hear,  a hand  to  grip,  a firm  and  even 
footstep  to  listen  to  unconsciously  as  an  accompaniment; 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  Tt 


to  our  talk  while  we  go  through  the  streets  together.  I 
can  not  help  caring  for  these  things,  for  I am  human, 
and  have  the  longings  of  human  womanhood.  But 
there  are  other  longings,  too — longings  that  lift  the 
human  ones  up,  and  give  them  the  idealism  that  is  neces- 
sary to  one’s  soul’s  salvation  ; and  these  last  hang  on  the 
first : they  are  all  inseparable. 

I have  written  on,  never  once  considering  how  it  may 
hurt  you.  It  is  better,  perhaps,  if  I do  hurt  you,  for 
some  wounds  must  be  seared  in  order  that  they  may  be 
healed.  Insulting,  heartless,  cruel,  some  dolts  who  saw 
this  letter  might  call  me  ; but  I am  none  of  these.  I 
have  spoken  out  fearlessly  all  that  was  in  my  heart  and 
mind,  as  you  wished  me  to  do.  I might  have  been 
more  gentle,  have  used  words  less  plain,  and  so  nourished 
my  own  vanity  on  your  regrets  at  losing  me.  And  heart- 
less? no.  If  I were,  I should  be  content  to  take  ease 
and  comfort  and  the  world’s  goods,  all  of  which  you 
would  give  me  for  my  portion,  and  concern  myself  about 
little  else ; should  be  content  with  the  simple  affection 
you  offer  me  instead  of  pushing  it  away,  because  my 
hungry  heart  needs  more.  We  had  our  summer  day, 
dear,  and  it  was  good  to  live  through ; but  now,  go  to 
your  cousin  Nell,  contest  Carpeth;  see  to  your  tenants, 
and  good-bye.  Yes,  good-bye,  dear  Englishman  ; only 
our  own  land  could  have  produced  you;  and  in  a 
measure  I am  proud  of  you,  as  I am  of  all  its  other 
goodly  products.  But  for  warmth  and  sunshine  one 
goes  to  other  lands  than  ours ; for  love  and  happiness  I, 
least,  must  go  to  other  heart  than  yours.  Better  for 
^ou  that  it  is  so,  for  I should  have  tried  you  sorely. 

2 


18  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

IV. 

HE. EXPOSTULATING. 

I really  don’t  know  how  to  answer  your  letter,  for 
of  course  I am  going  to  answer  it ; it’s  odder  than  ever, 
more  than  ever  like  you,  my  darling.  You  are  not  very 
polite,  are  you  ? But  perhaps  I am  not  either,  for  the 
matter  of  that.  For  the  life  of  me  I can’t  understand 
you,  can’t  make  out  what  you  are  driving  at,  and  I am  not 
sure  that  you  know  yourself.  You  say  that  you  love  me  , 
then  why  on  earth  can’t  you  be  content  to  marry  me? 
I love  you,  I am  very  fond  of  you,  though  I won’t  pre- 
tend that  I can  go  at  the  rate  you  seem  to  desire ; but, 
as  I said  in  my  last  letter,  passion  soon  fizzles  out.  Ro- 
mance is  all  very  well  when  you  are  young,  but  middle- 
age  is  a time  that  most  of  us  come  to,  and  then  what’s 
to  become  of  it  ? As  for  life  with  me  being  so  dull,  we 
can’t  be  always  going  in  for  excitement;  but  you  would 
get  enough  of  it,  I expect,  and  you  could  make  yourself 
prominent  in  lots  of  ways  if  you  wished  to  do  so.  I 
would  do  anything  in  reason  to  make  you  happy,  or  to 
please  you  as  far  as  I could.  If  you  want  change  and 
movement  and  new  experiences,  we  might  go  about  a 
good  bit.  I remember  your  saying  in  the  summer-time 
that  you  would  like  to  travel.  We  might  go  and  look 
up  some  scenery  in  Italy  or  Switzerland,  or  if  you  wanted 
anything  more  extensive  take  a run  over  to  America, 
though  I dop’t  expect  you  would  find  that  very  exhilar- 
ating, and  I never  cared  for  republics  myself.  Even 
Paris  is  spoilt  by  going  in  for  democracy  and  that  sort 
of  thing, 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 19 

I think  you  are  vexed  with  me  because  I told  you 
frankly  that  if  you  would  not  have  me  I should  try  my 
luck  with  Nell.  But  you  can’t  expect  me  to  keep  single 
because  you  don’t  think  me  lively  enough  to  marry  your- 
self. I am  getting  on,  thirty-six  next  January,  quite  time 
that  I settled  down  I feel  that  I ought  to  do  so;  be- 
sides, if  I wait  too  long  no  one  will  have  me.  Of  course 
it  is  easy  enough  to  talk  as  you  do,  but  take  my  word  for 
it,  your  feelings  are  not  what  is  wanted  for  daily  life. 
They  are  all  very  well  in  the  books  you  have  got  yourself 
into  the  habit  of  reading,  but  they  won’t  work  outside 
the  covers  in  which  you  find  them.  I don’t  believe  in 
Darwin,  as  you  know — not  that  I ever  read  much  of  him, 
I confess,  but  I made  out  what  he  was  up  to  pretty  well 
— and  I never  read  but  one  of  Zola’s  novels ; and  as 
that  was  a translation,  I take  it  for  granted  the  color  was 
good  deal  toned  down,  but  it  was  quite  sufficient  to  con- 
vince me  that  women  did  well  not  to  read  him  at  all.  I 
say  this  because  bits  in  your  letter  sound  like  the  talk 
one  hears  among  the  prigs  whom  it  is  the  correct  thing 
to  meet  at  some  houses  nowadays,  or  the  articles  one 
sees  in  the  heavy  reviews.  Not  that  I ever  talk  much  to 
the  first  or  read  the  last — know  better  than  that,  my  dar- 
ling. I prefer  being  on  the  river  with  you.  But  one 
can’t  help  knowing  what’s  in  the  air,  and  it  all  somehow 
harks  back  to  Darwin  and  Zola,  two  schools,  or  whatever 
you  call  them,  that  seem  to  be  running  neck  and  neck 
just  now  among  the  people  who  go  in  for  thinking.  But 
they  come  to  no  good,  dearest ; they  have  only  made  you 
want  some  artificial  kind  of  career.  Now  it’s  my  opin- 
ion that  a woman  ought  to  find  the  life  ofi  her  home  and 


20  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

the  companionship  of  her  husband,  and  later  on  of  her 
children,  sufficient,  and  that’s  what  most  sensible  men 
think,  too.  Content  yourself  with  them,  my  dear  one, 
and  give  yourself  to  me  with  a light  heart.  You  shall 
indulge  in  as  many  fancies  as  you  please,  and  have  as 
much  amusement  as  I can  reasonably  give  you,  and  we 
will  do  a whole  lot  of  going  about  from  first  to  last  if 
you  like. 

Of  course  I have  got  some  acres  and  must  look  after 
them,  if  it  is  only  to  keep  them  trim,  as  you  say,  for  the 
beggars  you  call  my  masters ; and  as  for  fighting,  or  in- 
venting things,  or  writing  books,  none  of  these  is  in  my 
line,  and  I am  glad  of  it.  A nice  comfortable  life, 
enough  money,  and  a good  digestion  have  fallen  to  my 
share,  and  I am  quite  content  with  it ; if  you  fall  to 
my  share  too  I shall  have  nothing  else  to  wish  for,  after 
I have  secured  Carpeth. 

I cannot  think  what  has  changed  you  all  of  a sudden, 
for  we  got  on  so  well  in  the  summer,  and  we  managed  to 
get  Awfully  fond  of  each  other,  or  I did  of  you,  and 
you  at  any  rate  were  happy  enough  with  me.  Be  happy 
again,  my  darling ; as  I said  in  my  last  letter  I say  again 
in  this : I love  you  better  than  any  one  else,  though  I 
own  I shall  try  and  win  Nell  if  you  throw  me  over.  But 
don’t,  I implore  you,  just  for  the  sake  of  all  that  you 
have  lately  taken  to  dream  about,  give  away  realities* 
Life  isn’t  a thing  that  comes  to  us  more  than  once — in 
this  world,  anyhow — or  that  lasts  too  long,  and  it’s  a 
pity  not  to  make  the  best  of  it ; I don’t  think  that  you 
would  make  the  worst  of  it  by  giving  yourself  to  me. 
Now  write  another  one  of  your  queer  letters  if  you  like. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  21 

and  say  not  only  that  you  love  me,  but  that  you’ll  marry 
me.  You  can’t  think  how  happy  you  would  make  me, 
and  I won’t  believe  you  were  playing  fast  and  loose  with 
me  all  the  summer  ; if  you  were  not,  why  it’s  all  right, 
and  let  us  get  married  soon.  We  would  move  about  as 
much  as  you  pleased  till  I was  obliged  to  be  back  in 
England  again  ; and  I feel  sure  that  that  is  what  you 
want  to  ease  off  some  of  your  excitement  and  restless- 
ness, and  make  you  content  with  ordinary  life  again. 
Good  night,  dearest ; write  at  once  and  let  me  know  pre- 
cisely what  your  views  are  now. — Affectionately  yours. 

V. 

SHE. — EXPLAINING  FURTHER,  AND  CONCERNING  PASSION. 

No,  I cannot  write  as  you  desire.  We  are  so  utterly 
different.  A month  ago  I did  not  see  it ; now  I do,  for 
your  letters  have  made  all  things  clear.  By  the  river  we 
felt  the  same  breeze,  the  same  sunshine ; we  thought 
they  had  the  same  effect  upon  us,  that  in  all  things  we 
felt  alike.  The  days  we  spent  together  were  drowsy 
summer  ones,  and  you  were  a dream  to  me ; perhaps  I 
was  one  to  you.  We  did  not  talk  much,  not  enough  to 
finjd  each  other  out,  and  it  is  to  that  we  owe  our  mem- 
ories. I am  glad  to  have  mine  ; I was  so  happy  and  I 
loved  you,  remember,  which  sanctifies  them,  so  that  I 
am  not  ashamed  because  of  the  long  hours  in  which  I 
was  wholly  content. 

But  life  is  not  spent  by  the  river-side,  or  in  a dream. 
The  summer  is  over,  we  are  awake,  and  our  story  is 
finished.  To  attempt  to  live  our  lives  together  would  be 
madness.  You  must  marry  your  cousin  Nell.  She  will 


22  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

be  a better  wife  to  you  than  I could  be  at  my  best.  She 
probably  belongs  to  the  type  you  like,  and  that  the  ma- 
jority of  men  like,  when  they  want  to  marry  and  settle 
down — the  wife  and  home  and  motherhood  type  that  nine- 
teen centuries  of  Christianity  have  taught  us,  and  rightly, 
to  admire.  But  I do  not  belong  to  it,  and  cannot. 

I could  hardly  bear  to  read  your  offers  of  travel.  It 
was  as  though  you  were  trying  to  bribe  me  with  them, 
knowing  that  of  love  there  was  not  enough.  How  dreary 
those  journeys  would  be  ! Worse  even  than  the  long 
evenings  when  we  looked  at  each  other  across  the  din- 
ner-table, and  then  from  either  side  the  fireplace,  glancing 
now  and  again  at  the  clock,  thinking  how  slowly  it  went 
towards  the  point  at  which  we  might  rise,  and  with  dull 
satisfaction  feel  that  the  day  was  over.  I can  imagine 
our  setting  out ; I can  see  us  on  our  way,  you  with  your 
time-table  and  guide-book,  your  Gladstone  bag  and 
portmanteaus,  easy-going  and  good-tempered,  anxious 
about  your  food  and  deliberating  as  to  the  hotels,  always 
spending  your  money  with  an  easy  hand,  yet  seeing  that 
proper  attention  was  paid  you.  I can  almost  hear  what 
you  say  as  I walk  beside  you,  my  Englishman  in  tweeds, 
along  the  railway  platforms ; and  I can  see  myself,  too, 
a little  tired,  and  disagreeably  inclined  towards  other 
people,  snapping  at  my  maid  for  being  forgetful,  yet 
meekly  listening  to  your  instructions.  How  we  should 
drag  through  the  cities,  looking  at  pictures  and  pretend- 
ing that  we  cared  about  them,  or  yawn  at  table  (Thotes , 
or  go  off  to  see  bits  of  scenery  because  other  .people 
went,  but  secretly  feeling  bored  by  them  as  by  most 
things ; I getting  more  and  more  tired,  and  you  reflect- 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  23 

in g that  after  all  there  was  no  place  like  one’s  own  home. 
I could  not  endure  it.  Yet  I could  tramp  gaily  in  tat- 
ters across  great  plains,  or  over  the  mountain-tops  with  a 
beggar  who  was  a poet,  a mechanic  who  was  a genius,  a 
dreamer  who  talked  of  a waking  time  to  come.  I could 
go  merrily  enough  through  the  cities,  though  we  had 
never  a coin  between  us  to  pay  for  a sheltering  roof. 
We  would  rest  beyond  the  gates,  crouching  under  a 
hedge  to  sleep,  and  sitting  by  a lonely  way-side,  cook 
our  scanty  food  with  the  help  of  the  little  tin  canteen  we 
carried  with  us.  I should  think  of  the  time  when 
the  city  we  had  left  would  ring  with  my  hero’s 
name,  of  how  he  would  lead  his  soldiers  through  it, 
or  teach  those  who  wanted  to  learn,  or  help  those  who 
suffered  now  and  must  wait  till  he  was  ready.  “ They 
do  not  know  his  name  yet,”  I should  say  to  myself ; 
“they  did  not  even  look  up  at  his  face  as  we  passed  by, 
but  they  will,  they  shall,  for  some  day  the  whole  wide 
world  will  be  but  the  setting  for  his  work.”  All  non- 
sense and  exaggeration,  you  will  say.  Yes,  dear;  it  is, 
and  I know  it.  But  over  a bridge  built  of  dreams  and 
exaggerations,  Love  often  goes  blindfolded  towards  the 
realities  it  may  never  reach  itself,  leaving  a track  that  the 
stronger  may  follow,  and  would  not  have  thought  out  for 
themselves.  To  the  lovers  and  the  dreamers  and  en- 
thusiasts it  is  sometimes  given  to  move  the  world  with 
their  shoulders  ; the  plodders  do  it  stone  by  stone  while 
the  ages  admire  their  patience.  The  last  are  like  school- 
boys learning,  but  to  the  first  the  heavens  and  hells  have 
whispered. 

Passion  soon  fizzles  out,  you  say,  and  you  think  only 


24  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


of  the  passion  of  a wicked  French  novel.  There  is 
another  type  of  man,  unlike  enough  to  your  healthy, 
manly  self,  who  does  this — the  man  who  is  above  all 
things  intellectual,  who  has  much  book-knowledge,  and 
has  read  and  remembered  and  stored  his  mind  with  the 
work  of  other  men,  so  that  his  talk  and  writings  are  full 
of  literary  allusion.  Through  his  mind  there  filters  con- 
stantly a stream  of  other  men’s  thoughts  ; if  that  gave 
out  his  mind  would  be  empty,  for  he  creates  nothing. 
His  mission  he  takes  to  be  to  tinker  at  other  men’s  work 
and  appraise  it,  and  he  does,  seeing  it  usually  by  a bor- 
rowed light.  Learned  and  luke-warm,  cold  and  cynical 
towards  most  things  that  have  not  been  dust  these  hun- 
dred years,  he  has  no  more  passion  in  him  than  he  has 
genius.  An  odd,  incomplete  creature,  a modern  refine- 
ment— for  he  would  often  be  a little  fashionable  in  these 
latter  days,  and  is  to  be  met  with  at  dinner-tables  and 
country  houses,  and  traced  in  our  literary  journals — I 
sometimes  wonder  where  the  good  of  him  comes  in,  for 
he  gives  the  world  nothing  that  is  his  own,  and  that 
which  he  finds  ready  to  hand  is  no  better  for  his  com- 
menting and  garnishing,  but  rather  the  reverse.  It  is 
him  I think,  on  whom  your  mind  is  running  when  you 
talk  of  Zola  and  Darwin,  but  he  has  nothing  in  common 
with  either ; and  you  and  he  have  nothing  in  common — 
which  is  all  to  the  good  of  you — except  that  both  of 
you  think  that  passion  is  usually  dashed  with  wicked- 
ness, and  has  but  one  meaning  attached  to  it.  The 
very  word  you  consider  an  undesirable  one  to  use,  espec- 
ially before  woman  or  in  polite  society.  You  are  not 
quite  sure  that  it  is  proper. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WO 31  AN.  25 


But  the  passion  I mean,  and  would  have  in  my  lover’s 
heart,  was  in  Joan’s  when  she  rode  into  Rheims  to  crown 
her  king.  If  it  had  lasted  a little  longer  it  would  have 
deadened  the  outward  flames  at  her  burning,  and  her 
shrieks  would  not  have  echoed  in  our  ears  through  all 
the  centuries.  It  was  in  Napoleon’s  heart  when  he 
strode  on  before  his  army  and  thought  the  whole  world 
would  be  his.  It  was  in  Samuel  Plimsoll’s  heart  when 
he  stepped  forth  and  by  a passionate  moment  won  his 
cause.  A score  of  men  along  the  benches  might  have 
lulled  each  other  with  their  dull  platitudes  for  a score  of 
years  without  doing  what  that  one  moment’s  fire  did.  It 
is  in  the  novice’s  heart  when  she  hears  the  great  gate 
clang  behind  her,  and,  raising  her  clasped  hands,  thinks 
that  she  will  surely  one  day  scale  the  heights  of  heaven 
and  see  her  Saviour’s  face.  Read  “ St.  Agnes’  Eve  ” — 
Tennyson’s,  not  Keat’s  I mean — and  you  will  under- 
stand. My  heart  has  stirred  to  it  till  I could  have 
thrown  the  book  aside,  and  walking  through  the  frosty 
snow  to  the  convent,  have  besought  them  to  let  me  in 
for  one  moment  to  stand  beside  the  white- veiled  figure, 
and  see  the  light  as  it  never  is  seen  by  the  sayers  of 
prayers  and  singers  of  hymns  in  the  stifling  churches  of 
the  world.  But  this  was  only  a passing  feeling,  a power 
of  the  poet’s,  that  proves  him  and  not  one’s  self.  And 
it  is  not  the  whole  of  what  I mean,  for  I want  all  that  is 
in  the  novice’s  heart,  but  more  added  on.  I do  not 
want  your  reverence,  I told  you,  and  that  is  true,  and  I 
do  not  want  to  be  good,  absolutely  good,  for  that  means 
being  bound  by  finite  possibilities,  and  it  is  the  infinite 
in  all  things,  good  and  evil,  that  has  the  eternal  power. 


26  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


And  I would  like  all  feelings  in  nay  lover's  heart  to  have 
their  fling,  while  we,  whom  the  issue  most  concerned, 
breathlessly  awaited  the  result,  leaning  to  this  side.or 
that  according  to  our  strength,  or  that  which  was 
brought  to  bear  on  it.  For  men  and  women  are  not 
meant  to  kill  their  strongest  feelings  and  impulses,  but 
only  to  understand  them,  to  know  when  to  govern  or  to 
let  themselves  be  governed.  To  this  last  knowledge  the 
world  owes  the  greatest  deeds  that  men  have  done.  In 
passion  there  is  fire,  and  does  not  fire  purify  as  well  as 
burn  ? The  prairie  planes  sweep  all  growths  before 
them  as  they  make  unflinchingly  towards  their  goal,  and 
the  goal  of  passionate  love  at  its  highest  is  achievement 
that,  but  for  its  sake,  would  never  have  been  gained.  It 
is  the  achievement  I long  for,  not  for  myself,  but  for  my 
best-loved ; I would  go  away  if  he  willed  it,  when  he 
needed  me  no  more,  and  be  remembered  nowhere  save 
in  his  heart.  I should  know  the  fire  there.  Did  not 
Prometheus  filch  it  from  heaven?  Perhaps  it  would 
mount  higher  and  higher  on  good  work  done  till  it 
touched  the  heavens  again. 

But  all  this  you  think  mere  craving  for  excitement,  a 
lack  of  repose,  an  aching  to  be  prominent.  It  is  none 
of  these.  Still,  in  my  heart  there  is  nevertheless  a lean- 
ing forward  towards  the  future — not  my  own  future,  bur. 
the  whole  world’s.  Nonsense,  you  will  say;  what  have 
I to  do  with  that  ? We  have  all  to  do  with  it ; we  can- 
not separate  ourselves  off  from  it,  for  this  present  self- 
consciousness  that  we  call  life  is  not  the  whole  of  us  un- 
less we  choose.  There  is  one  thing  ours  from  the  time 
we  enter  the  world,  if  we  did  but  know  it — it  is  part  of 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  2? 


life’s  mystery  that  we  should  so  seldom  know  it— the 
power  to  fashion  our  own  immortality,  not  in  our  own 
bodies,  but  in  the  things  we  do.  A sort  of  choice  or 
chance — which  is  it  ? — seems  to  be  ours,  to  seek  the 
stars  or  tread  the  depths.  Have  we  not  come  out  of  the 
past  leaving  strange  histories  we  cannot  even  remember 
behind  us  ? Here  in  our  present  day  we  choose,  so  it  is 
given  to  me  to  feel,  whether  we  will  let  the  potentialities 
stamp  us  out,  or  whether,  having  in  some  shape  paid  the 
world  for  its  light  and  shelter,  its  love  and  joy,  though 
its  alternatives  were  pain  and  woe,  we  go  on  into  the 
future  ages  stronger  for  that  with  which  we  have  nour- 
ished our  souls.  Oh,  my  dear,  it  is  not  excitement  that 
I want.  I believe  I could  wait  long  years  to  meet  a 
single  day,  and  having  known  it  live  long  years  again 
remembering,  though  never  a ripple  stirred  Time’s  sur- 
face before  or  after.  But  I could  not  be  content  with 
your  life  a.nd  its  lack  of  possibilities.  You  would  not 
ask  me  to  go  to  you  hungry  if  you  had  no  food,  shiver- 
ing if  you  had  no  shelter.  Yet  this  would  be  little  be- 
side the  starvation  you  offer  me.  Why  should  I give  up 
to  you  all  my  chances,  all  my  ambitions,  my  hopes  and 
longings,  the  wild  love  and  satisfying  life  that  may  be 
mine — nay,  my  pain  and  bitter  woe,  for  I would  miss 
none — and  the  work  that  will  surely  some  time  come  to 
my  eager  hands  and  heart,  for  what  ? To  please  you 
now  for  just  a little  space,  till  you  awoke  to  realize  that 
life  together  was  not  what  you  had  imagined  it  would  be, 
that  something  was  wrong,  was  missing,  you  could  not 
tell  what ; while  I,  who  had  never  slept,  would  under- 
stand well  enough  all  the  time,  and  some  day,  feeling 


28  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

the  twitch  of  the  demon’s  finger  on  my  arm  and  his 
whisper  in  my  ear,  I should  vanish,  how  or  where  I 
should  hardly  know.  For  the  marriage  vow  between  us 
would  not  be  one  that  bound  my  soul,  and  my  feet  would 
be  swift  to  follow  that  whither  it  went.  To  hold  fast  by 
one’s  soul  as  long  as  may  be  is  the  wisdom  of  the  gods. 

It  is  no  use  saying  more.  Perhaps  you  are  right  in 
thinking  that  I don’t  know  what  I am  driving  at.  Do 
any  of  us  know  whither  we  are  going  ? But  that  does 
not  prevent  us  from  feeling  driven  ; and  this  I know, 
that  the  Fates  are  driving  me  with  a strong  hand  away 
from  you.  We  shall  never  get  nearer  to  each  other, 
though  I write  on  and  you  read  on  forever.  Be  content 
with  the  past.  I have  loved  you.  I do.  But  not  with 
the  love  that  would  let  me  be  your  wife,  content  to 
spend  my  days  by  your  side,  trying  to  make  your  days 
happy;  perhaps  it  is  some  of  your  own  good-for-wear- 
and-tear  affection  that  I give  you  back.  I do  not  know. 
There  are  many  men  like  you,  thank  God — many  good 
women  to  mate  with  them,  crowds  of  you  both,  happy 
enough  to  walk  along  the  beaten  track  with  your  fel- 
lows, doing  as  they  do,  being  as  they  are,  a rest  and 
comfort  for  the  like  of  me  to  take  shelter  with  some- 
times, but  not  to  abide  with  always.  For  your  place 
is  in  your  home,  and  your  duties  are  to  fulfill  the  easy 
obligations  that  keep  it  going ; but  mine,  in  some 
strange  fashion,  seems  to  be  along  the  world’s  highway, 
staying  now  and  again  in  its  workshops,  though  it  be 
but  to  watch  my  masters,  or  to  be  cuffed  and  made  to 
stand  aside  till  my  own  turn  comes.  Perhaps  I should 
be  happier  if  I were  like  your  cousin  Nell,  and  could  be 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  29 


satisfied — but  I cannot.  Home  and  its  influences;  a 
husband  who  would  love  me  and  to  love  back  and  help 
in  an  easy  routine  like  yours;  children  with  their  games 
and  laughter,  growing  up  to  be  the  world’s  good  citizens 
— sometimes  it  comes  into  my  heart  to  long  for  these,  to 
ache  for  the  rest  they  would  mean,  the  simple  life  and 
further  reaching  power  than  those  who  live  within  its 
fences  think,  the  safe  and  even  way  that  most  women 
yearn  to  walk,  looking  neither  up  at  the  heights  nor  down 
at  the  depths,  but  only  at  the  road  before  them,  content 
enough  to  tread  it.  But  no.  It  is  so  strange,  this  in- 
ner life,  with  the  outer  one  that  hides  it — the  brother  and 
his  delicate  wife,  the  visitors  coming  and  going,  the  dogs 
and  the  horses,  the  long  rides  and  walks,  the  pulls  on  the 
river  or  the  dreaming  beside  it,  the  going  to  town  or  to 
country  houses  and  the  hurry  of  life  there,  the  men, 
“ the  half  a dozen  fellows, ” as  you  call  them,  who  talk 
of  love,  not  knowing  how  much  or  how  little  they  mean. 
It  all  seems  a little  way  off  from  me,  and  yet  I am  here 
in  the  midst.  You  ! Oh,  but  it  has  been  all  a sad  mis- 
take ! I loved  you,  and  thought  you  understood.  That 
you  love  me,  or  have  loved  me,  I know  well  enough ; 
but  there  is  a great  space  between  us,  a desert  in  which 
we  should  have  to  walk  if  we  tried  to  be  together.  No, 
again  and  forever,  no.  Your  life  stands  out  clear  before 
you,  but  something  tells  me  that  mine  has  other  chapters 
than  this.  There  are  some  words  that  went  to  my  heart 
long  ago.  Oh,  my  dear  Englishman,  perhaps  you  will 
say  that  they  were  written  by  an  improper  poet.  Zola 
and  Swinburne  ! Marry  your  cousin  Nell  by  all  means, 
I do  but  watch  and  wait  like  those — 


30  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


“ . . . who  rest  not ; who  think  long 
Till  they  discern  as  from  a hill 

At  the  sun’s  hour  of  morning  song, 

Known  of  souls  only,  and  those  souls  free, 

The  sacred  spaces  of  the  sea. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  I shall  see  and  know  more,  but 
then  I shall  not  be  here.  Good-bye,  once  again. 

VI. 

HIS  MOST  INTIMATE  FRIEND. — CONSOLING. 

Dear  E , I don’t  think  you  an  awful  cad  for 

sending  on  her  letters,  and  I don’t  wonder  at  your  being 
puzzled  by  them.  Of  course  I will  keep  their  contents 
hidden  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  my  soul.  They  are 
not  like  ordinary  love-letters — thank  Heaven.  For  a 
nice  little  note,  with  a monogram  in  the  corner,  a word 
or  two  doubtfully  spelled,  and  crammed  full  of  dears  and 
darlings,  is  worth  a stack  of  these,  which  might  have 
been  written  to  her  great-grandmother. 

I take  her  in  pretty  well.  She  isn’t  altogether  a fool, 
you  know  ; but  she  is  one  of  the  large-minded,  great- 
souled  people,  longing  to  suffer  and  distinguish  them- 
selves in  the  cause  of  humanity  and  for  the  good  of  the 
world,  who  are  such  a nuisance  nowadays.  She  means 
well,  but  she  would  be  death  to  marry ; there’s  no  know- 
ing what  she  would  be  up  to  by  the  time  she  was  thirty. 
The  amazing  thing  about  it  is  that,  if  I remember 
rightly,  she  is  that  pretty  woman  who  came  over  with 
the  Fenwicks  to  my  aunt’s  place  last  Easter.  She  was 
about  six  or  seven  and  twenty,  played  lawn  tennis  better 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  31 

than  any  one  else,  flirted  all  round ; and  finally  drove 
herself  away  on  a high  dog-cart  with  a learned,  half- 
starved  looking  cuss,  from  whom  she  was  probably  im- 
bibing some  of  these  notions.  Nature  made  a mistake 
in  sorting  out  her  physique ; she  ought  to  have  been  tall 
and  lank,  with  long  arms,  high  cheek-bones,  and  a 
washed  out  complexion.  All  the  same,  in  spite  of  her 
good  looks,  I shudder  to  think  of  her  as  mistress  of 
Bingwell.  The  only  good  bit  in  the  whole  of  her  letters 
is  the  polite  allusion  to  the  savory  and  the  salad.  That 
looks  as  if  she  could  order  a dinner ; but  she  would 
probably  forget  to  do  so  half  her  time,  and  I suppose  she 
would  scorn  to  eat  it — though  the  material  side  of  her 
doesn’t  seem  to  be  undeveloped.  Before  she  had  been 
installed  a month  you  can  bet  she  would  have  shocked 
the  neighbors  and  fought  with  the  parson.  And  what  a 
woman  she  would  be  to  stay  with  ! She  would  have  an 
open  contempt  for  her  visitors  all  round,  and  lead  them 
a nice  life,  except  the  unwashed  few  she  calls  the  mas- 
ters of  the  world.  It  is  really  a fine  name,  if  you  come 
to  think  of  it ; somehow  it  reminds  me  of  Spain,  where 
every  beggar  in  tatters  asking  for  cuartos  is  a gentleman. 
No,  old  man,  marry  your  cousin  Nell  (in  spite  of  her 
fancy  for  life’s  alternatives,  she  doesn’t  seem  to  like  that 
one  of  yours),  or  any  other  sensible  girl  who  doesn’t 
think  she  has  a destiny  or  a mission,  and  thank  your  stars 
that  this  magnificent  person  would  not  have  you. — Ever 
yours. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY 
WOMAN. 


i. 

MRS.  ROBERT  WILLIAMS  TO  MRS.  POWER. 

Daffodil,  Brecon,  S.  Wales, 

January  26 , 1884. 

My  Dear  Mary, — I am  not  surprised  at  your  having 

met  Madge  Brooke  at  the  C ’s,  for  she  manages  to 

go  everywhere  now.  This,  of  course,  is  entirely  owing 
to  her  brother’s  position,  and  to  the  fact  that,  instead  of 
making  her  an  allowance  and  telling  her  to  live  alone, 
as  most  brothers  would,  he  lets  her  live  with  him.  The 
generosity  shown  by  men  to  their  relations  is  often  sin- 
gularly irritating  to  lookers-on,  and  John  Brooke  fur- 
nishes an  instance  of  this  in  his  conduct  towards  his  sis- 
ter. Some  day,  however,  her  reign  will  end,  for  he  is 
sure  <to  marry,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  keep  him  single. 
I shall  be  curious  to  see  what  Madge  will  do  then.  Two 
years  ago  he  was  most  attentive  to  my  Isabel,  and 
though,  of  course,  Isabel  with  her  advantages  did  not 
care  about  him,  the  wiles  of  Madge  to  prevent  a climax 
were  quite  ridiculous. 

I understand  your  desire  to  know  all  about  the 
Brookes  before  encouraging  an  intimacy.  I am  ex- 
tremely cautious  about  new  people  myself  now  that  my 
(32) 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  33 


girls  are  grown  up ; besides,  I feel  it  due  to  our  long 
friendship  to  answer  you  frankly,  as  I should  like  you  to* 
answer  me. 

Madge  Brooke  and  her  brother  John  are  the  children 
of  my  husband’s  sister.  They  were  left,  when  their 
parents  died,  with  an  income  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a year.  My  own  opinion  was  that  this  should 
have  been  sufficient  to  prevent  them  from  becoming  a 
burden  to  other  people.  Robert,  who  is  always  foolishly 
good-natured,  thought  differently.  The  boy  was  sent  to- 
an  expensive  school,  spending  his  holidays  with  us,  and 
afterwards  went  to  Oxford ; the  girl  came  here.  This 
arrangement  was  exceedingly  unpleasant  to  me,  but  I 
endeavor  to  do  my  duty.  Feeling  that  Madge  could  not 
expect  to  stay  here  always,  especially  if  anything  should 
happen  to  Robert,  I did  not  demur  at  her  receiving  a 
good  education,  so  that  she  might  ultimately  turn  it  to 
account.  She  grew  up  to  be  a tall,  graceful  girl ; some 
people  thought  her  handsome,  and  she  had  a way  when 
she  chose,  of  making  people  like  her.  I never  cared 
about  her  myself  or  particularly  admired  her ; I prefer  a 
simpler  type.  People  always  talked  about  her  a good 
deal  and  .called  her  original.  I am  very  thankful  that 
my  girls  are  not  original.  It  is  always  doubtful  how  far 
experiments,  whether  in  human  nature  or  in  anything 
else,  will  succeed;  at  present,  judging  from  the  fact 
that  Madge  is  seven-and-twenty  and  unmarried,  she  is 
not  a success.  Had  she  been  an  ordinary  woman  an  or- 
dinary man  might  have  settled  down  with  her.  Still,  as 
I say,  some  people  liked  her.  The  Wentworths  at  the 
Rectory,  for  instance,  were  never  tired  of  seeing  her 
3 


31  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

there ; she  and  Nellie  Wentworth  were  inseparable,  tak- 
ing long  walks  and  reading  the  same  books,  until  they 
made  themselves  look  absurd.  I did  not  interfere  with 
them,  for  it  took  Madge  from  my  children,  with  whom 
I did  not  care  she  should  spend  too  much  time.  This 
was  not  because  of  anything  bad  in  the  girl,  but  because 
I feel  strongly  that  there  should  be  a line  drawn  between 
the  children  who  are  properly  provided  for  by  their  par- 
ents and  the  children  left  by  their  parents  to  the  charity 
of  others.  This  may  sound  harsh,  but  is  not  the  Scrip- 
ture meant  for  our  acceptance  in  the  letter  as  well  as  in 
the  spirit  ? and  we  are  expressly  told  that  God  himself 
visits  the  sins  of  the  parents  on  the  children,  and  not  for 
one  generation  only.  We  also  should  make  it  a point 
to  let  children  feel  the  shortcomings  of  their  parents,  so 
that  in  future  years  they  may  profit  by  the  lesson. 

When  Madge  was  seventeen  or  eighteen  the  Allens  at 
the  Grange  had  on  a visit  to  them  a young  man  called 
James  Harrison.  The  Allens  are  those  people  we  asked 
to  our  picnic  as  an  after  thought  when  you  were  here, 
and  who  so  much  admired  your  children.  They  are 
rich,  but  made  their  money  in  business  or  by  specula- 
tion, and  they  and  their  visitors  are  altogether  uninter- 
esting. Mr.  Harrison  was  a young  man  in  a merchant’s 
office  well  connected  with  business  people,  and  so  likely 
to  get  on.  He  fell  in  love  with  Madge,  who,  after  being 
engaged  to  him  for  some  months,  suddenly  jilted  him ; 
why  I could  never  divine,  unless  it  was  as  a sign  of  the 
originality  which  is  unfortunately  her  characteristic.  I 
was  very  angry  indeed  at  her  conduct,  and  her  brother 
having  left  Oxford,  she  went  to  live  with  him  in  London, 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 35 

where  they  were  for  some'  time  very  poor,  and  pretended 
to  be  very  happy.  Suddenly  John  Brooke,  who  had  got 
into  a firm  of  engineers,  was  sent  to  India  about  the 
construction  of  a railway.  He  took  Madge  with  him, 
and  there,  and  afterwards  in  England,  there  was  some 
sort  of  a flirtation  or  engagement  with  Mr.  Mark  Cuth- 
bertson,  a rather  clever  artist,  who  does  pictures  for 
illustrated  papers.  He  was  at  school  and  afterward  at 
Oxford  with  John  Brooke,  but  was,  I believe,  very  idle, 
and  never  did  much  good.  He  stayed  here  once  some 
years  ago,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  with  Madge,  who 
was  then  a little  girl.  In  India,  and  afterwards,  John 
Brooke  developed  genius  as  an  engineer  and  in  every- 
thing else  he  touched.  He  is  really  charming,  and,  as 
you  know,  has  carried  all  before  him,  both  in  his  pro- 
fession and  in  society.  Though  only  thirty,  I am  told 
that  he  makes  a large  income,  and  he  goes  everywhere, 
especially  among  intellectual  people.  He  is,  however, 
very  obstinate  in  some  ways,  and  does  very  odd  things ; 
for  instance,  once  when  he  was  obliged  to  be  away  for 
a few  months,  he  allowed  Madge  to  stay  at  a cottage 
somewhere  in  Berkshire  with  no  one  to  look  after  her 
but  a woman  servant  called  Janet,  who  was  their 
mother’s  maid  in  the  days  when  she  could  afford  one.  I 
felt  it  my  duty  to  speak  to  him  about  it,  but  he  grew 
quite  angry,  and  said  he  didn’t  care  how  strange  it 
looked,  he  could  trust  Madge  (men  are  so  foolish)  ; and 
if  one  only  took  care  of  realities,  appearances  righted 
themselves.  So  I left  her  to  her  own  devices  and  the 
evil  tongue  of  slander.  I did  my  duty,  and  the  rest 
was  no  business  of  mine.  But  to  show  you  how  per- 


36  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

verse  she  is,  once,  when  John  was  again  abroad,  and  she 
alone  in  London,  I offered  to  go  and  stay  with  her  ; but 
she  declined,  on  the  plea  that  while  her  brother  was 
away  she  wanted  to  be  quite  alone.  I have  always  dis- 
liked those  people  who  want  to  be  so  much  alone — it  is 
unnatural.  Does  not  the  disciple  say  it  of  man,  how 
much  more,  then,  ought  we  to  say  it  of  woman? 

I forgot  to  tell  you  that,  three  years  ago,  Madge  was 
engaged  again  to  a Lieutenant  Brian,  a young  man,  the 
only  son  of  a north  country  parson  who  had  married  an 
heiress ; so  that,  though  he  was  only  in  the  artillery 
(she  met  him,  I believe,  at  a woolwich  ball),  he  would 
eventually  have  been  very  well  off.  The  engagement 
ended  abruptly,  I never  knew  why,  and  the  young  man 
was  killed  in  some  engagement  in  Egypt.  I heard  lately 
that  Sir  Noel  Franks  was  after  her,  but  that  is  probably 
nonsense,  for  she  would,  no  doubt,  be  glad  enough  to 
make  so  brilliant  a match.  Last  year  she  and  John 
Brooke  gave  a dance,  not  at  Bolton  Row,  but  at  a larger 
house  which  they  hired  for  the  occasion.  They  asked 
us,  and  I went,  thinking  it  might  amuse  Grace  and 
Isabel ; but  I regretted  it  afterwards,  for  Madge  was  just 
as  attentive  to  the  merest  stranger  as  she  was  to  me. 
Lord  Arthur  Grey  danced  once  with  Grace,  and  evidently 
admired  her,  but  Madge  kept  him  in  her  pocket  all  the 
rest  of  the  evening — she  is  that  sort  of  woman. 

The  young  man  she  jilted  so  heartlessly  called  here  a 
few  months  ago.  He  was  a widower,  and  wanted  to 
know  her  address.  He  had  become  rich,  I think,  or 
fairly  so,  and  I hoped  he  would,  after  all,  marry  Madge, 
for  he  is  a man  with  a strong  will,  and  might  have  a 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  37 


beneficial . influence  on  her  character  ; but  I have  not 
heard  of  his  going  to  see  her — perhaps  he  thought  bet- 
ter of  it.  The  Mrs.  Hamilton  you  saw  there  when  you 
called  is  her  old  friend  Nellie  Wentworth,  who  is  a 
widow,  for  her  husband  died  of  sunstroke  in  India,  and 
left  her  with  one  child. 

Now  I have  told  you  all  I can  about  Madge.  You 
will  think  that  I have  written  a very  expansive  letter ; 
but  she  is  a person  who  somehow  irritates  me,  perhaps 
because  I feel  that  she  is  ungrateful  for  all  the  care  I be- 
stowed on  her  while  she  was  under  my  roof,  and  for  the 
interest  I have  since  shown  in  her  welfare.  But  she  is 
obstinate  and  willful,  and  likes  to  have  her  own  way  so 
much,  that  even  to  give  her  advice  is  an  unpleasant 
duty  to  which  I can  only  occasionally  nerve  myself. 

If  you  hear  or  see  much  of  her  in  London  you  might 
tell  me  of  her  doings,  for  as  she  is  my  husband’s  niece  I 
do  not  like  to  lose  sight  of  her.  I shall  make  a point 
of  seeing  her  soon,  for  I often  feel  anxious  about  her, 
though  she  is  no  longer  young,  and  since  India  her  com- 
plexion has  gone  off  terribly — With  best  love  to  your 
dear  girls,  I am,  your  affectionate  friend, 

Maria  Williams. 

II. 

MADGE  BROOKE  TO  MRS.  HAMILTON  (NELLIE) 

Bolton  Row,  Mayfair, 

February  1 , 1884. 

Dearest  Nellie.— No,  indeed.  I am  not  changed  at 
heart,  no  matter  how  different  I am  in  manner.  If  my 


38  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

confidence  does  not  go  out  as  readily,  if  I am  more 
silent,  more  formal,  it  is  only  that  I am  older,  graver, 
sadder,  not  that  I have  changed  towards  you,  dear  Nell. 
That  I shall  never  do.  I am  just  as  fond  of  you  as  ever, 
though  I do  not  show  it  as  often  or  as  easily  as  before — 
I had  learned  to  be  silent — long  and  much  and  that 
restraint  and  the  hiding  of  her  feelings  constitute  half 
the  power  of  woman.  And  to  you,  dear,  I will  always 
be  at  heart  the  same — the  Madge  that  was  in  the  days 
when  we  used  to  hide  away  from  Aunt  Maria,  and  felt 
so  happy  when  she  punished  us  by  taking  no  notice  of 
our  doings.  Poor  Aunt  Maria  ! I love  her  as  little  as 
ever,  and  am  often  angry  with  myself  on  her  account, 
but  she  has  really  been  odious  lately ; whenever  we  meet 
she  tries  to  impress  on  me  that  I am  old  and  ugly,  and 
fast  becoming  of  no  account — not  that  I ever  was  of 
much  account  in  her  eyes.  Is  not  the  conduct  of  re- 
lations often  amazing  ? Their  singular  frankness  towards 
each  other,  their  rudeness,  and  their  total  want  of  ap- 
preciation, or  else  their  absolutely  blind  belief.  I do 
not  quarrel  with  this  last — it  should  be,  it  is  delicious,  it 
is  compensation  for  the  skepticism  of  the  rest  of  the 
world  ; but  I do  quarrel  with  the  first — at  least,  I 
don’t  quarrel,  but  I try  to  keep  clear  of  Aunt  Maria 
giving  me  advice  that  is  wholly  disagreeable  and 
thoroughly  impossible.  But  let  us  leave  Aunt  Maria  and 
think  of  ourselves. 

You  are  changed,  too,  poor  Nell,  in  the  six  years 
since  we  parted.  I cannot  bear  to  think  of  you  alone  in 
the  world  with  just  your  one  little  child ; and  yet  I envy 
you — you  have  a great  happiness  to  remember,  a great 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  39 

love,  though  sorrow  is  the  price  of  both.  My  memories 
madden  me;  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  sweetness  and 
shame  of  which  they  are  made  ; oh,  that  I had  yours  ! 
Some  things  are  worse  than  death,  dear  Nell.  Would  it 
not  have  been  worse  if  your  husband  had  grown  cruel 
and  cold  and  calculating,  to  have  seen  him  love  you  less, 
forget  you  perhaps  altogether  ? You  do  not  know  this 
grief.  Yet,  I know  all  you  have  suffered,  dear,  since  I 
saw  you  last,  six  years  ago,  when  you  waved  your  hand- 
kerchief as  we  left  Bombay. 

Yes,  dear — yes  and  yes,  of  course  and  forever  let  us 
be  friends  again,  close  friends  if  it  be  possible.  Grad- 
ually I may  thaw,  and  my  face  no  longer  have  written 
on  it,  as  you  say  it  now  has,  a life’s  history  that  is  a 
closed  book  to  you.  But  you  must  let  me  tell  you  as  I 
can  and  when  I will.  We  are  too  old,  too  sad  to  sit 
down  as  we  did  when  we  were  girls,  and  tell  or  write  our 
innermost  thoughts  and  feelings  by  the  yard.  I may  tell 
you  all  mine  if  you  care  to  know  them  ; I would  share  all 
yours ; but  confidences  must  fit  and  shape  themselves  into 
events,  and  wait  on  the  needs  of  our  hearts  and  souls. 

I wish  you  were  in  London,  that  we  met  oftener ; but 
if  that  cannot  be  so,  we  will  write,  and  you  will  at  least 
see  that  I have  not  forgotten — that  success  has  not 
spoiled  me.  Success  ? Sad  failure,  if  you  did  but  know. 

I wish  you  were  in  London.  I want  you  so  much  to 
be  friends  with  John  again,  as  you  were  years  ago  when 
you  were  both  children.  He  has  not  forgotten  you  ; he 
would  like  to  see  you  often  here,  as  I should.  He  is  not 
a bit  spoiled,  though  he  has  tasted  the  sweets  of  success 
— dear  John. 


40  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


It  was  so  vexing  that  Mrs.  Power  came  the  only  after- 
noon that  you  and  I had  together.  . . 

I must  tell  you  one  odd  thing  before  I finish.  You 
remember  James  Harrison?  It  is  years  since  we  parted 
at  Daffodil.  The  other  day  he  suddenly  appeared 
again.  He  and  you,  and  I have  news  also  from  Mark 
Cuthbertson,  who  has  been  long  away.  It  is  as  if  time 
were  suddenly  giving  up  its  past.  James  is  very  pros- 
perous, a widower  with  two  children.  It  would  be  droll 
if  it  were  not  sad. 

I cannot  write  more  to-night,  and  this  is  long  enough 
as  it  is.  It  is  quite  strange  to  give  myself  out — even  to 
you.  Madge. 

III. 

MADGE  BROOKE  TO  HER  BROTHER. 

Dearest  John. — Of  course  I will  see  to  all  the  things, 
and  I am  delighted  to  hear  that  you  are  coming  back. 
It  has  been  a dull  fortnight  without  you.  There  is  little 
news — Nellie  Hamilton  was  in  town  for  a few  hours  last 
vVeek ; but  that  tiresome  Mrs.  Power  came  in  and  spoiled 
our  talk.  Don’t  let  us  know  Mrs.  Power  if  we  can  help 
it ; but  we  must  try  not  to  offend  Aunt  Maria,  whose 
friend  she  is. 

Mr.  Harrison  (for  I will  not  call  him  James)  has 
called  two  or  three  times,  and  I have  been  vexed  with 
myself  for  being  bored  by  him.  His  attitude  towards 
everything  irritates  me,  he  is  so  very  dogmatic ; yet  I 
believe  he  has  the  kindest  heart  behind  his  badly-made 
coat.  Every  one  worries  or  bores  me  a little  now,  ex- 
cept you  and  Nellie.  Nellie  looks  very  young  and  sweet 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 41 


and  sad — and  she  is  all  three.  When  you  marry,  John, 
dear,  I hope  your  wife  will  be  like  Nell ; then  I shall  be 
satisfied. 

Sir  Noel  Franks  asked  us  to  dine  on  Thursday,  but  I 
refused.  It  seemed  a pity  to  give  up  a quiet  evening 
together  for  any  dinner-party  in  the  world.  No,  I am 
not  flirting  with  him.  Do  not  be  concerned  about  his 
feelings,  he  is  too  much  taken  up  with  the  world  to  be 
romantic.  Perhaps  he  would  marry  me ; but  his  last 
idea  is  being  in  love  with  me.  How  odd  it  would  be  to 
see  him  in  love.  When  that  comes  off,  no  matter  with 
whom  it  is,  may  I be  there  to  see.  Madge. 

P.S. — I forgot  one  bit  of  news.  I met  Mr6.  Berry. 
She  says  Mark  is  coming  back  to  England  next  month. 

IV. 

MADGE  BROOKE  TO  JAMES  HARRISON. 

Thursday . 

Dear  Mr.  Harrison, — I fear  I cannot  be  at  home 
this  afternoon,  nor  give  you  the  private  interview  for 
which  you  ask.  If  you  will  forgive  me  for  saying  it 
plainly,  I feel  that  there  is  nothing  concerning  my  hap- 
piness in  which  you  have  a voice  ; nothing  concerning 
my  future  that  we  need  discuss  together. 

For  your  happiness  and  your  future  you  have  my  most 
cordial  good  wishes,  and  believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

Madge  Brooke. 

V. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Dear  James  (since  you  stipulate  that  I will  not  call 
you  Mr.  Harrison), — Your  letter  has  reached  me,  of 


42  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

course.  Ever  since  it  came  I have  been  staring  all  the 
by-gones  possibilities  in  the  face.  Why  did  you  write 
it  ? I tried  to  prevent  your  doing  so  ; for  it  can  alter 
nothing,  can  do  no  good.  It  would  have  been  far  better 
to  have  left  the  past  alone,  instead  of  trying  to  rake  it 
back  over  all  these  years.  You  beg  me  to  be  explicit ; 
to  tell  you  all  that  is  in  my  thoughts.  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  asking ; but  you  have  set  me  wondering 
how,  indeed,  to  answer  you.  There  is  only  one  way, 
since  you  will  have  it  so— to  be  absolutely  and  cruelly 
truthful  at  last,  cost  you  and  me  what  it  will. 

You  say  you  feel  that  I loved  you  once,  and  must,  in 
my  heart,  love  you  still.  You  cannot  understand  why  I 
was  false.  You  think  that  but  for  some  outside  influence, 
but  for  some  one  who  over-persuaded  me,  and  did  not 
like  you,  I should  have  been  true.  It  seems  so  cruel  to 
sweep  away  the  illusion  of  your  life,  but  I had  better  do 
so.  There  is  no  love  in  my  heart  for  you  now ; there 
was  never  any  in  the  past.  No  one,  nothing  came  be- 
tween us  that  had  not  existed  from  the  first;  and,  if  I 
was  false,  it  was  because  I was  never  true  to  you — never. 
You  fell  in  love  with  me  that  summer  you  stayed  with 
the  Allens — almost  at  first  sight.  I remember  how  your 
face  used  to  light  up  when  you  spoke  to  me.  I remem- 
ber your  smile  when  you  looked  at  me,  your  voice  full 
of  love,  boyish  love,  but  true  and  stanch — love  of  me. 
I have  often  wondered  at  it  since,  for  I was  just  an  un- 
formed girl  in  those  days,  with  few  attractions;  but 
never  in  all  the  years  since,  in  which  I have  been 
sophisticated  enough  to  doubt  anything,  has  there  ever 
been  a doubt  of  the  depth  and  truth  of  your  love  for  me. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


You  were  twenty- two  and  I was  seventeen.  You  were 
attentive  enough  all  that  month  you  stayed  in  Wales. 
Then  you  went  away,  rather  to  Aunt  Maria’s  vexation, 
without  any  hint  of  intentions.  She  was  never  kind  to 
me.  She  had  always  hated  being  obliged  to  take  in  a 
not  well-off  niece  and  nephew,  so  that  John  and  I had  a 
bad  time — I worse  than  he,  for  he  was  much  away,  and 
when  he  went  to  Oxford,  his  life  at  Daffodil  virtually 
ended.  She  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me.  I was  a little 
older  than  her  own  daughters ; she  wanted  me  married 
before  they  came  out ; it  would  be  an  excellent  thing  if 
you  proposed,  she  said,  and  impressed  on  me  again  and 
again  that  I must  get  married  ; that  it  was  the  one  hope 
of  my  life,  and  should  be  its  one  ambition.  She  would 
not  have  thought  you  good  enough  for  one  of  her  own 
daughters.  You  were  dull  and  plodding,  “something 
in  the  City,”  a third  son  of  a well-to-do  merchant,  not 
well  off  yourself  or  likely  to  be.  She  welcomed  you 
because  she  wanted  you  to  take  me  off  her  hands ; but 
she  did  not  think  much  of  you— you  with  just  three 
hundred  a year  and  no  money  besides.  But  you  were 
good  enough  for  me.  We  could  manage  very  well  on 
your  income,  she  told  me ; you  would  be  at  your  office 
all  day  and  so  not  trouble  me  much.  When  John  left 
Oxford  and  settled  in  London  he  could  live  with  us  and 
so  help  out  our  income — “ if  he  ever  made  one  of  his 
own.”  I remember  those  words  so  well.  John?  who 
is  now  well  off  and  famous.  If  she  could  have  only 
guessed  in  those  days  what  he  would  have  become  in 
these,  she  would  have  behaved  differently.  If  she  could 
have  guessed  that  you  would  grow  rich  she  would  have 


44  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


made  more  of  you  and  thought  you  far  to  good  for 
me. 

But  you  went  away  and  made  no  sign.  Then  she  de- 
clared that  you  had  just  been  flirting  with  me,  she  had 
not  really  supposed  you  meant  anything,  and  it  was  very 
unlikely  I should  ever  marry ; she  wondered  whether  I 
could  not  find  a situation  as  companion — it  would  be  no 
disgrace,  far  better  than  living  on  my  relations  ; and  then 
she  wondered  if  you  boasted  of  your  flirtation  with  me, 
and  hoped  I should  not  take  your  desertion  to  heart. 
You,  a man,  cannot  understand  the  gall  and  wormwood, 
the  positive  shame  all  this  was  to  a girl.  If  I had  been 
a few  years  older  I should  not  have  borne  it,  I should 
have  gone  out  into  the  world  and  fought  it  as  best  I 
could  ; later,  too,  I should  have  felt  that  there  were  other 
men,  other  lovers  in  the  future  for  me,  and  eagerly  have 
awaited  the  right  one,  or  have  calmly  looked  out  for  one 
who,  at  any  rate,  better  took  my  girlish  fancy.  But  as 
it  was,  I felt  powerless.  I bore  her  gibes  and  my  own 
half-shame,  and  almost  prayed  that  you  would  return  and 
so  stop  her  sneers ; and  you  came.  Aunt  Maria  asked 
you  for  a few  days  to  Daffodil.  A cold  dread  took  pos- 
session of  me  as  you  came  up  the  drive.  Your  coming 
felt  like  the  arrival  of  the  executioner,  to  one  who,  even 
if  he  would,  for  some  strange  reason  dared  no  longer 
live.  You  devoted  yourself  to  me,  and,  with  alterna- 
tions of  fear  and  courage,  I accepted  and  repulsed  all 
your  attentions — do  you  remember?  Yet,  I secretly 
triumphed  where  you  showed — for  you  had  no  shame  of 
loving  me,  dear  James — how  much  you  cared  for  every- 
thing I said  and  did.  How  I hate  myself  for  the  mean 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  45 

part  I played,  for  my  cowardice,  my  meanness,  my 
vanity.  How  you  will  hate  and  despise  me  as  you  read 
this  letter.  Thank  God — yes,  thank  God,  that  it  is  not 
possible  for  any  man's  love  to  survive  the  reading  of  a 
letter  like  this.  But  it  shall  be  finished  through  and 
through  to  the  end,  and  all  things  made  clear  to  you  at 
last. 

“ Has  he  not  spoken  yet?”  Aunt  Maria  asked,  as 
day  after  day  of  your  visit  went  by  and  still  you  left  me 
free.  “ Perhaps,  after  all,  he  is  only  laughing  at  you.” 
I felt  that,  at  any  cost,  I must  stop  her  maddening  sneers- 
and  prove  that  I could  win  an  honest  man’s  love.  After 
that  ? Well,  God  knows.  And  so,  James,  in  sheer  des- 
peration as  well  as  blind  wickedness,  I led  you  on  and 
coquetted  with  you,  till  I saw  that  you  were  hopelessly 
my  slave,  and  then  I stood  aghast,  afraid  at  what  I had 
done,  and  tried  to  hold  you  off. 

The  last  night  of  your  visit  was  Isabel’s  birthday 
party.  Neither  you  nor  I will  ever  forget  it,  I suppose. 
When  it  was  over,  and  while  the  guests  were  hurrying 
away,  all  at  the  same  moment,  as  they  used  to  do  at 
those  simple  Welsh  parties,  you  found  me  alone  in  the 
little  study  where  John  used  to  do  his  lessons.  I had 
fled  there  for  one  moment's  peace,  one  moment  to  think 
alone,  not  knowing  that  you  were  behind  me.  Then  it 
was  that  you  found  words  to  speak,  and  told  me  you 
loved  me,  and  asked  me  to  be  your  wife.  I did  not  dare 
to  say  no — I had  encouraged  you  too  much ; besides,  I 
knew  what  would  be  in  store  for  me  if  I let  you  go  away 
refused.  So  I nodded  my  head  for  answer,  feeling,  un- 
consciously, as  a gambler  when  he  . throws  a stake  that: 


46  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

means  life  or  death,  curious  and  afraid  at  what  next  will 
come  ; dreading,  perhaps,  both  alike,  no  matter  which 
way  the  dice  fall.  How  well  I remember  it  ! You  put 
your  arms  round  me,  I shuddered  and  turned  from  the 
kiss  I could  not  have  borne  to  touch  my  lips,  and  knew 
in  that  one  moment  what  I had  done,  what  was  before 
me  ; my  eyes  were  opened  ; it  was  like  eating  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge.  I never  said  I loved  you.  You  were  so 
absorbed,  so  overpowered  with  love  yourself,  you  never 
noticed  my  silence.  You  were  unsophisticated,  too, 
James  ; you  had  never  played  lover  before,  and  did  not 
know  how  much  to  expect,  how  much  a girl  gives  back 
to  the  man  who  has  won  her  heart ; and  all  my  shrink- 
ings  and  shortcomings  you  accepted  and  put  down  to 
shyness.  I begged  you  not  to  marry  me  yet ; do  you 
remember  ? I was  too  young  ; I said,  fearingly. 

“In  a year?  ” you  pleaded  ; and  I answered  : 

“Oh  no,  not  in  one  year,  but  two;  I shall  be  only 
nineteen  then.,, 

It  should  be  as  I wished,  you  said.  You  would  wait 
for  me  seven  years,  or  seventy,  if  I would  have  it  so,  and 
you  might  only  know  the  day  would  really  come  when  I 
should  be  yours.  So  I consented. 

Two  years.  When  we  are  young  they  seem  like  a life- 
time. Before  two  years  were  over  I should  have  learned 
to  love  you,  I thought,  have  grown  reconciled  to  the  idea 
of  marriage — or  have  died.  Two  years  ! No  world 
could  stand  still,  no  fate  remain  unchanged  through  two 
whole  years.  There  was  nothing  I would  not  have  con- 
sented to  do  at  the  end  of  that  long  time  so  that  I gained 
a respite  for  the  moment.  Time  and  change  and  Fate 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  47 


would  arrange  things  before  two  years  had  passed.  So 
we  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  engaged,  you  and  I ; 
you  beaming  with  happiness,  I feeling  like  a prisoner, 
and  yet  knowing  that  I ought  to  be  happy,  too; 
I was  engaged,  and  you  loved  me ; I should  be  im- 
portant among  all  the  girls  about  me ; some  day, 
too,  I should  have  a wedding,  be  dressed  in  white  and 
stared  at  by  all  the  village.  I felt  a^little  elation  now 
the  deed  was  done  that  for  the  moment  passed  itself  for 
happiness,  and  made  me  feel  gentle  and  grateful  toward 
you— grateful  to  you  for  rescuing  me  from  the  position 
that  had  been  mine  until  your  love  came  and  made  the 
whole  world  kinder  towards  me.  I think  Aunt  Maria 
was  angry  at  the  prospect  of  our  long  engagement ; she 
had  hoped  to  get  rid  of  me  sooner — angry  even  at  the 
trivial  importance  the  engagement  gave  me,  and  she 
vented  her  ill-humor  in  letting  me  know  that  the  matri- 
mony in  view  would  be  humdrum  enough. 

You  went  away,  and  your  letters  came ; those  cease- 
less letters  filled  with  love,  at  which  I wondered  and  was 
flattered  and  half  amused,  and  yet  from  which  I shrank 
Nellie  Wentworth,  the  vicar’s  daughter,  was  engaged  at 
that  same  time.  She  used  to  watch  for  the  postman 
every  morning,  and  only  lived  from  post  to  post.  She 
kissed  her  letters  when  they  came  and  carried  them 
about  with  her  to  read  again  and  again  through  the  day, 
I used  to  look  at  her,  half  wondering,  thinking  how  odd 
it  was  to  be  happy  like  that — to  love  like  that.  When 
your  letters  came  I read  them  and  put  them  by.  I think 
I should  have  shivered  if  one  had  touched  my  face  and 
to  have  kissed  one  would  have  withered  me,  for  girlhood 


48  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

has  very  strong  repulsions  which  it  cannot  help.  It  was 
an  odd  feeling  to  have  towards  the  man  I was  going  to 
marry.  Do  not  blame  me  over-much  : I could  not  help 
it,  and  it  was  not  born  in  me  until  I had  promised  to 
marry  you,  and  your  arms  had  felt  like  prisoner’s  chains. 

I struggled  to  be  true,  to  love  you,  to  be  kind  to  you, 
and  tried  to  write  so  that  you  should  be  pleased.  I 
wanted  to  be  good — oh  ! I longed  more  than  I can  tell 
you  to  be  good,  to  be  holy,  as  I had  vowed  to  be  a year 
before  my  confirmation  ; and  I used  to  feel  that  I must 
be  true  to  you — I must — I must,  or  all  my  life  be  iniqui- 
tous. I was  so  unutterably  lonely,  too,  in  those  days; 
I was  at  the  age  when  one’s  heart  begins  to  awake,  when 
one’s  woman’s  nature  begins  to  assert  itself;  I wanted, 
and  did  not  know  that  I wanted,  a true  woman’s  life,  its 
duties  and  pleasures  and  love,  the  love  of  those  I loved ; 
but  there  was  none  I loved  save  Nellie,  who  was  about 
to  be  married,  and  John,  who  was  away,  and  whose  life 
I expected  would  be  separated  much  from  mine.  I was 
never  happy — never  for  one  moment  while  we  were  en- 
gaged. The  one  fair  and  honest  thing  I did  was  to  jilt 
you.  Thank  God  I did,  for  I am  not  a bad  woman  ; but 
if,  in  those  days,  I had  married  a man  who  did  not  pos- 
sess my  whole  heart,  I do  not  know  what  might  or  might 
not  have  happened  had  temptation  come  in  my  way — or 
even  if  it  had  not;  for  I am  passionate,  James,  not 
merely  in  my  likes,  but  in  my  dislikes ; and  though  I 
never  actually  disliked  you,  I should  have  learned  to  dis- 
liked— nay,  to  hate  an  angel  had  I married  one  without 
loving  him  with  all  my  heart.  What  I suffered  while  we 
were  engaged  no  words  can  tell.  I learned  from  Nellie 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  49 

Wentworth  to  know  what  love  might  be — to  understand 
the  happiness  I should  be  forever  shutting  out  from  my 
life  in  marrying  you.  She  was  so  happy  at  the  thought 
of  being  her  soldier’s  wife,  though  she  knew  that  directly 
they  were  married  he  would  take  her  away  from  all  she 
loved  to  India.  I only  loved  John  in  the  world,  and 
Nellie  herself — just  those  two,  and  had  no  happy  home,, 
but  I felt  I should  die  if  I were  married  to  you  and  go- 
ing away  alone  with  you. 

Nellie  and  I told  each  other  all  our  little  secrets — we 
vowed  to  tell  them  all  our  lives,  but  I was  false  in  that, 
too.  I could  not  tell  her  that  I was  engaged  to  a man  I 
did  not  love,  and  who  yet  imagined  that  I loved  him; 
for  I knew  that  you  did  think  I loved  you.  Nellie  was 
always  ready  to  talk  of  Tom  Hamilton,  to  whom  she  was 
engaged ; but  I never  talked  back  again  of  you.  I 
couldn’t ; I wanted  to  shut  you  out  of  my  thoughts,  and 
dreaded  your  coming  into  my  life  more  intimately  than 
letters  brought  you. 

And  still  it  seemed  as  if  by  every  post  you  loved  me 
more  and  more,  and  rejoiced  more  and  more  at  the  pros- 
pect of  our  marriage — that  marriage  of  which  the  thought 
made  my  heart  stand  still,  and  my  face  grow  cold,  for 
my  feelings  took  a stronger  turn,  and  I liked  you  less 
and  less  instead  of  more  and  more. 

You  came  at  Christmas;  my  heart  sank  as  I went 
down  to  meet  you  in  the  hall.  Do  you  remember  how 
I shunned  you  during  that  visit  ? I wonder  you  put  up 
with  me ; but  you  were  miserable — I saw  that,  though 
you  made  no  protest. 

A month  later  you  wrote,  trying  to  hurry  on  our 
4 


50  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


marriage.  That  brought  things  to  a climax.  I shed 
bitter  tears  over  that  tender  letter  of  yours,  and  wished 
a thousand  times  that  I were  dead.  I loathed  myself  that 
I must  pain  you  so,  but  still  I felt  that  the  time  had 
come  when  I could  live  a lie  no  longer.  So  I wrote  and 
begged  you  let  me  off.  I told  you  I did  not  love  you 
and  should  die  if  you  married  me.  You  know  all  that 
followed.  I thought  you  would  break  your  heart  from 
your  letters ; but  no,  you  seemed  to  get  over  it  soon 
enough — in  eighteen  months  you  had  married. 

Aunt  Maria  thought  I was  mad,  I think,  but  it  did  not 
matter,  for  it  was  soon  after  John  had  taken  his  degree, 
and  he  brought  me  to  London.  That  was  the  first  hap- 
piness— that  being  alone  with  him  and  free — that  I had 
known  since  my  dear  mother  died  years  and  years  be- 
fore, when  we  were  children. 

Do  not  be  harsh  to  me,  James,  now  that  you  know 
how  it  all  came  about.  No  one  ever  came  between — no 
one ; I was  false  from  beginning  to  end,  save  when  I set 
you  free.  It  was  a long,  distinct  chapter  of  life  that 
ended  with  our  half-frantic  letters ; yours  doubting  my 
words,  believing  that  I did  and  must  love  you  in  spite  of 
myself ; mine  determined  that  there  should  be  no  more 
pretence  between  us,  and  that  I must  and  would  be  free. 
It  was  in  that  same  chapter  that  life  in  London  began— 
the  dear  life  with  by  brother  John.  He  was  not  well- 
known  or  well-off  then,  but  poor  and  struggling.  We 
lived  in  shabby  lodgings  on  very  little  money ; he  was 
out  all  day,  and  I used  to  walk  about  the  streets,  think- 
ing how  good  it  was  to  be  free ; how  I should  have  died 
if  we  had  married  ; how  terrible  it  would  have  been  if. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  51 

every  night,  instead  of  John  ceming  home  to  the  simple 
dinner,  you  had  come,  and  you  my  husband.  Even  in 
thought  I shrank  from  it.  Was  I not  right  to  break  it 
off?  Love  is  a strange  thing  that  will  not  be  controlled, 
that  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  conveniences,  that  will 
not  be  governed  by  reason,  that  may  go  to  the  worst  and 
leave  the  best — a thing  altogether  beyond  our  ken  ; and 
you  may  hate  me  for  my  conduct — I deserve  it — but  it  was 
not  my  fault  that  I did  not  love  you ; I could  not  help  it. 
Does  this  explain  it  all  to  you  at  last  ? It  answers  your 
letter  to  me  to-day,  too,  and  all  its  questions — or  nearly 
all. 

But  there  sihall  be  no  more  mistakes,  and  I will  answer 
the  chief  question  yet  more  plainly.  No,  no,  and  for- 
ever, no.  I cannot  marry  you.  You  will  be  content, 
you  say,  to  marry  me,  even  if  I do  not  love  you — if  I 
will  only  let  you  try  to  win  me,  and  so  on.  No,  I can- 
not consent  to  that.  You  do  not  know  what  you  are 
proposing — my  ruin,  body  and  soul,  perhaps  yours  and 
your  children’s,  for  I should  be  restless  and  miserable 
and  desperate,  and  I am  a strange  woman,  to  whom  fear 
of  many  kinds  is  unknown.  I could  dare  or  do  some 
strange  things  without  flinching  if  I were  driven.  If  I 
married  you  I might  become  torpid,  dull,  or  heavy,  or  I 
might — I do  not  know,  I cannot  say ; I only  do  know  that 
I should  bring  you  no  happiness,  and  we  must  be  strangers. 
Before  this  letter  is  finished  you  will  probably  he  thank- 
ful that  it  is  so.  Don’t  think  that  I am  cold  or  ungrate- 
ful, for,  in  spite  of  my  conduct,  I am  neither.  If  I were 
cold  it  would  be'easier  to  marry  you ; as  it  is,  I cannot. 
If  I ever  marry  for  anything  but  love — it  must  be  for 


52  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

more  than  you  can  give  me.  Those  last  words  may 
make  you  despise  me,  but  I would  rather  you  do  that  than 
love  me.  Your  love  does  not  even  please  my  vanity,  and 
that,  too,  may  make  you  angry,  but  I cannot  help  it ; so 
that  you  do  not  talk  to  me  of  love,  I care  for  nothing 
concerning  you,  and  I cannot  make  myself  do  so,  for 
my  heart  and  soul  live  wide  miles  apart  from  yours,  and 
will  not  take  account  of  you. 

It  made  me  shudder  to  read  your  letter.  You  have 
always  loved  me,  you  say ; you  think  there  has  not  been 
a day,  an  hour,  since  we  parted  all  those  years  ago,  in 
which  you  have  not  loved  me.  I could  think  of  nothing 
when  I read  those  words  but  of  how  terrible  it  must 
have  been  for  your  wife.  No  wonder  she  died,  poor 
soul ! I seem  to  feel  her  reproachful  eyes  upon  me  ; I 
can  imagine  her  face,  grave  and  sad,  her  poor  lone 
heart  aching  for  that  which  was  never  hers — no  wonder 
she  died.  Surely  she  would  rise  from  her  grave  if  I 
took  her  place,  and  yet  a place  she  never  had,  and 
played  mother  to  her  children — her  children,  whom  I 
do  not  think  I should  love,  to  whom  at  best  I should 
only  be  dutifully  good,  for  they  are  not  even  the  chil- 
dren of  a man  I love,  or  have  ever  loved,  but  of  a man 
I do  not  love,  and  of  a woman  on  whom  I never  set 
eyes. 

There  is  another  thing.  You,  though  you  love  me, 
would  want  to  keep  a rein  over  me.  You  have  ideas 
of  a man  being  master,  of  a woman  being  submissive; 
you  would  want  to  show  me  clearly  at  times — though 
there  had  arisen  no  necessity — that  you  were  master ; 
you  would  think  it  manly  to  do  so.  But  I should  hate 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  53 

a man  who  kept  a rein  over  me ; it  is  what  the  men  do 
who  are  not  sure  of  themselves,  the  men  who  feel  that 
they  must  be  always  making  signs  that  they  are  strong, 
lest  they  be  suspected  of  weakness.  It  would  seem  to 
me  like  a jailer  rattling  the  keys  as  he  walked  by  the 
cells,  lest  the  prisoners  should  forget  that  they  had  lost 
their  freedom.  I remember  your  asking  me  once  when 
we  were  engaged  if  I kept  an  account  of  what  I spent, 
of  the  few  odd  pounds  a year  that  were  allowed  me,  and 
when  I said  no,  you  said,  in  a firm  voice  that  sent  a 
thrill  through  me,  a thrill  of  opposition,  “You  will 
have  to  do  it  when  you  are  my  wife,  darling.”  It  was 
like  the  flick  of  a whip  before  my  eyes;  it  was  the 
tone  of  the  master  who  meant  to  have  his  way,  to  make 
it  clearly  felt  that  he  was  master,  and  to  let  no  other  will 
but  his  be  felt  within  his  doors.  I think  those  words 
alone  did  much  to  strengthen  the  impossibilities.  They 
opened  a sudden  vista  of  the  future,  and  every  bit  of 
me  rose  in  revolt.  I should  have  hated  the  life  you 
would  have  expected  me  to  lead : its  rules  and  obliga- 
tions, its  monotony.  I dreaded  it  even  when  I was  only 
seventeen  and  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  but  now  it 
would  kill  me.  You  think,  too,  that  woman  should 
keep  in  the  background,  that  home  life  and  duties 
should  be  sufficient  for  her,  that  her  views  of  the  outer 
world  should  be  gained  from  her  husband,  and  those 
views  as  a matter  of  course  agree  with  his.  You  would 
not  approve  of  much  going  out,  of  social  success  even, 
of  individuality  of  any  sort.  This  would  fret  and  worry 
me.  I am  no  strong-minded  woman ; I do  not  want  to 
go  to  meetings,  still  less  to  speak  at  them.  But  I must 


54  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


have  freedom — freedom  to  think  and  read  and  speak  and 
form  now  my  ideas,  as  all  thinking  men  let  their  wives 
do  now.  Since  John  prospered  so  well,  and  gave  me  as 
his  sister  a place  in  the  world,  I have  had  what  I wanted. 
I could  not  give  it  up  to  go  to  live  in  Gower  street  as 
your  wife,  to  look  after  your  house,  to  plan  your  quiet 
evening  dinner,  to  arrange  your  children’s  lessons,  let 
all  my  joys  aqd  sorrows  be  your  shaping,  submitting  al- 
ways my  will  to  yours.  My  life,  for  all  its  dreams  and 
ambitions,  is  not  a happy  one,  has  not  been  but — 

[ Unfinished , and  not  sent.  ] 

TO  THE  SAME. 

VI. 

(THE  LETTER  THAT  WAS  SENT.) 

Saturday . 

I have  had  your  letter,  of  course,  and  would  give 
much  if  you  had  never  written  it,  for  I cannot  answer  it 
as  you  wish  ; and  I beg  you  to  take  this  as  final,  and  to 
believe,  as  I know,  that  I could  neither  make  you  happy 
nor  be  happy  with  you.  It  seems  so  trite  to  say  that  I 
am  your  friend,  but  I am  and  truly,  and  pray  for  your 
happiness — but  that  must  be  found  apart  from  me. 

M.  B. 


VII. 

MADGE  TO  NELLIE. 

Saturday  Night . 

I will  answer  your  letter  soon,  not  to-night,  for  or?*- 
of  my  horrid  moods  has  overtaken  me.  A strange  thing 
has  happened.  I told  you  in  my  last  letter  that  James 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  55 

Harrison  had  called  ; that  he  was  a widower  with  twc 
children.  Do  you  remember  how  shocked  you  looked 
when,  a month  before  your  marriage,  1 told  you  that  my 
engagement  was  broken  off,  that  I had  never  loved  him  ? 
I could  not  make  myself  explain  it  all  at  the  time,  foi 
one  reason  among  others  because  I feared  your  telling 
Tom.  You  seemed  to  think  my  conduct  abominable, 
and  looked  at  me  almost  with  horror ; you  with  your 
just  one  lover,  whom  you  loved  dearly. 

But  no  one  knows  what  I had  suffered  about  James 
Harrison,  how  my  heart  used  to  sink  when  he  came,  how 
I shrank  from  him,  and  what  it  was  to  think  of  mar- 
riage with  him.  You  did  not  understand  how  it  all  was 
then,  but  you  shall  now.  Enclosed  is  the  letter  I wrote 
him  in  answer  to  his  proposal  the  other  day.  For,  in 
spite  of  my  conduct,  he  has  asked  me  again,  after  all 
these  years,  to  marry  him.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
send  it  to  him,  but  it  will  make  things  clear  to  you.  He 
has  had  a decisive  note  a few  lines  long.  I want  you  to 
understand  me,  then  I shall  be  able  to  measure  your  love 
for  me  better,  to  know  how  strong  it  is,  and  that  no 
surprises  can  make  it  rock  in  its  foundation.  For  two 
women  to  love  each  other  all  things  must  be  clear  and 
fair — there  must  be  no  mystery  and  nothing  hidden. 
Between  a man  and  a woman  it  is  different.  It  does  not 
do  then,  to  know  each  other  too  well ; some  barriers 
should  never  be  broken  down,  some  things  left  vague 
and  undefined — if  a man’s  love  especially  is  to  continue. 

To-morrow,  perhaps,  I will  answer  your  letter,  to-day 
I want  to  begin  making  the  past  clear  to  you.  That  is 
why  I send  you  the  impossible  letter  to  James  Harrison. 


56  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

It  explains  itself.  We  lost  sight  of  each  other  when  all 
things  were  ended  between  us.  I shall  never  forget  how 
business-like,  in  spite  of  his  grief,  James  was  in  the  end- 
ing; he  asked  for  his  letters  and  presents  back,  and  re- 
turned mine — my  letters,  that  is,  for  he  had  had  no 
gifts  from  me.  Every  envelope  was  numbered  and 
dated,  and  the  last  communication  I had  irom  him  was 
a formal  acknowledgement  of  the  packet  I had  forwarded. 
Eighteen  months  later  I heard  that  he  was  married,  and, 
as  I thought,  consoled.  He  passed  altogether  out  of  my 
life.  I do  not  think  you  and  I ever  mentioned  his  name 
in  India.  He  seldom  even  entered  my  thoughts  from 
the  day  I heard  of  his  marriage ; before  I had  hated 
and  loathed  myself  for  my  falseness,  but  after  he  had 
taken  a wife  more  repentance  seemed  unnecessary. 

One  afternoon,  a month  ago,  a card  was  brought  in 
with  his  name  upon  it.  It  was  impossible  to  refuse  to 
^ee  him,  and  after  all  those  years  we  metagain.  He  had 
altered  little.  He  was  tall  and  pale  as  ever,  thin  and 
determined  looking.  There  was  an  odd  business-like 
manner  about  him,  brought  from  the  city,  I suppose, 
where  he  is  a merchant.  He  looked  prosperous,  and 
had  an  air  of  confidence  that  prosperity  gives,  and  yet  I 
felt  his  hand  tremble  as  he  took  mine.  We  sat  down 
and  looked  at  each  other  in  the  shy,  critical  manner  of 
people  who  meet  after  long  years  of  silence.  He  had 
heard  of  me  through  the  Allens. 

“I  longed  to  see  you  again.  You  know  that  I lost 
my  wife?”  he  said,  abruptly. 

“ No,  I didn’t  know  it,”  I told  him. 

“I  have  been  a widower  for  a year,”  he  said,  firmly, 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  5i 


and  waited  a moment,  and  then  went  on.  “ One  wants 
to  see  one’s  old  friends  again  after  a loss  like  mine.” 

“ Oh  yes,  it  is  very  natural,”  I answered.  There  was 
nothing  sentimental  in  his  manner  any  more  than  in  his 
words ; he  did  not  seem  in  the  least  inclined  to  make 
love.  I did  not  feel  at  all  alarmed  on  that  point ; be- 
sides, I had  not  yet  grasped  the  fact  that  he  was  mar- 
riageable. He  told  me  about  his  wife’s  last  illness, 
about  his  two  little  girls,  about  his  house  and  his  ambi- 
tions and  plans  for  the  future.  He  told  me  in  a tone  of 
pride  that  he  was  well  off,  “ much  better  than  in  the  old 
days — he  had  just  set  up  a brougham.” 

“ That  is  nice,”  I said,  and  took  care  not  to  let  him 
know  that  John  had  given  me  one  three  years  ago. 

The  talk  dwindled  away  after  a time,  just  as  it  used 
formerly,  for  James  was  never  great  at  conversation. 
He  knew  but  few  people ; he  never  read  anything  but 
his  daily  paper,  and  the  politics  he  gathered  from  that 
he  only  talked  with  men ; the  topics  of  the  outside 
world  he  held  to  be  beyond  the  grasp  of  women.  He 
asked  about  John,  and,  looking  round,  remarked,  “This 
room  isn’t  large,  but  the  locality  is  pretty  expensive; 
John  must  be  making  a fortune.” 

“No,  not  a fortune,”  I answered,  “ but  he  is  doing 
well,  and  I am  very  proud  of  his  fame.” 

He  looked  up  at  the  last  word  as  if  he  wondered  what 
it  meant.  It  was  evident  that  he  lived  out  of  earshot  of 
John’s  world. 

“ I should  like  some  one  to  be  proud  of  me,”  he 
said,  after  a minute,  with  an  amused  little  smile,  that 
showed  he  thought  John’s  reputation  a mere  idea  of  an 


58  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

affectionate  relation.  Then,  after  another  moment  or 
two,  he  said,  almost  suddenly,  as  if  it  was  a conclusion, 
and  a comforting  one,  that  he  had  jumped  at : 

“ It  is  all  professional  income,  I suppose.  You  have 
not  come  into  any  fortune?  ” 

“ No,  we  had  not  come  into  any  fortune/ * I told  him, 
and  he  seemed  gratified  at  the  intelligence.  Somehow  I 
knew  that  he  was  thinking  that,  in  spite  of  John’s  pros- 
perity, I was  actually  no  better  off  than  I had  been  years 
ago,  and  that  this  thought  was  a comfort  to  him. 

“ Master  John  will  be  getting  married  one  of  these 
fine  days,  I expect  ? 99  he  said. 

“ Yes,  I hope  so,”  I answered  ; and  he  was  silent  for 
a few  moments.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  hesitated. 
There  was  always  a little  hardness  in  his  voice ; it  was 
very  hard,  yet  shy,  too,  when  he  spoke  again,  as  though 
he  were  saying  something  on  which  he  had  determined 
beforehand. 

“ I should  like  to  bring  my  little  girls  to  see  you,  if 
you'  will  let  me — Madge.” 

He  half  hesitated  before  he  brought  out  my  Christian 
name,  but  he  did  it  firmly.  Of  course  I said  I should 
like  to  see  them ; what  else  could  I say  ? 

“I  am  very  anxious  that  they  should  be  carefully 
brought  up/’  he  went  on.  “I  don’t  believe  in  teaching 
girls  too  much,  unless  they  have  to  earn  their  living,  and 
mine  are  already  provided  for.  I have  put  away  a good 
nest  egg  for  both  of  them,  so  they  are  never  likely  to 
have  to  turn  out.” 

He  had  a city  way  of  choosing  his  phrases,  as  well  as 
a city  manner.  He  is  a very  prosperous  mercantile  sort 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 59 

of  person.  Intellectual  pursuits  are  as  evidently  not  his 
as  a white  tie  or  a round  collar  are  not  his.  “ Some- 
thing in  the  city”  is  writ  large  all  over  him.  Don’t 
think  that  I object  to  this  as  not  being  fine  enough.  It 
isn’t  that.  It  is  that  city  men — obviously  city  men, 
with  their  interests  confined  to  the  city — never  attract 
me.  It  is  not  that  they  are  not  grand  enough,  or  that  I 
scoff  at  their  profession — don’t  think  that  I am  such  a 
snob,  dear  Nell.  It  is  merely  a matter  of  taste.  I pre- 
fer a country  laborer  to  a city  clerk  ; thick,  muddy  shoes 
and  a slouch  hat  to  a slim  umbrella  and  a frock  coat.  I 
know  little  about  men’s  clothes  ; but  I hate  a frock  coat, 
and  it  was  one  of  poor  James’s  offences  that  he  wore  one. 

I thought  he  would  never  go  away.  I dreaded 
vaguely  wjiat  he  would  say  next ; but  at  last  he  did  go, 
and  virtually  without  saying  anything ; so  I breathed 
freely  once  more,  though  I could  not  forget  that  he  lived 
only  a few  miles  off,  that  he  was  a widower,  and  that  his 
matrimonial  instincts  had  always  been  well  developed. 

Still,  perhaps,  after  all,  I thought,  he  would  not 
trouble  me  any  more.  If  few  men  really  believe  them- 
selves unattractive,  fewer  still  care  to  risk  refusal  twice 
from  the  same  woman,  and  those  who  do  are  generally 
men  of  a different  nature  from  James. 

But  he  came  again.  He  wanted  to  see  John,  he  said, 
as  an  excuse  for  his  visits ; but  John  was  always  busy  in 
the  day,  and  when  he  came  home  it  was  generally  only 
just  to  dress,  and  perhaps  pick  me  up  for  dinner  and 
evening  parties;  he  had  no  time  for  James  Harrison, 
Besides,  he  had  always  found  James  a bore,  and  quite 
understood  that  but  for  Aunt  Maria  I should  never  have 


tfO  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

accepted  him.  So  my  old  lover  was  allowed  to  drift 
into  the  tide  of  afternoon  callers,  who  came  and  went 
and  saw  only  me. 

One  day  he  asked  me  if  I would  go  and  see  his  house 
and  children.  I tried  to  excuse  myself,  and  asked  him 
to  bring  the  children  to  me. 

‘ ‘ Not  till  you  have  first  been  to  my  house  to  see 
them,”  he  said,  decisively  ; and  I felt  that  if  I refused 
some  strong  feeling  might  be  roused  in  him,  which  was 
the  last  thing  I wished.  So  I consented  to  go  to  tea  one 
afternoon. 

“And  stay  on  to  dinner,  and  ask  John  to  come, 
too?  ” he  suggested. 

“ No,”  I said,  quickly ; “ I can  never  make  engage- 
ments for  John.” 

“ Well,  then,  fix  a day  at  once  to  come  to  tea,”  he 
answered,  seeing  that  more  was  impossible ; and  from 
sheer  helplessness  I did  so.  I asked  if  I might  take 
Annie  Masters  with  me,  remarking  that  she  was  such  a 
pretty  girl,  and  thinking  that  it  would  be  a blessed  thing 
if  he  would  fall  in  love  with  her;  for  she  was  poor,  and 
not  over  discriminating,  and  so  might  take  him.  But, 
in  answering  my  request,  his  voice  changed  and  became 
almost  passionate,  though  passion  had  never  entered  into 
Jame’s  love-making  formerly.  It  had  been  more  of  the 
quiet,  determined  order. 

“I  don't  want  Annie  Masters — or  anyone  else  but 
you,”  he  said.  A little  fear  crept  into  my  heart.  “ You 
know  that,”  he  went  on,  looking  at  me  with  his  large 
cold  eyes.  “Come  alone.  I wish  it  were  for  alto- 
gether.” I said  nothing,  but  grew  distant  and  tried  to 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  61 

laugh.  To  my  relief  a letter  was  brought  in,  and  he  be- 
came curious  about  that,  looking  at  me  and  waiting  for 
me  to  open  it.  He  seemed  to  be  bearing  down  upon  me, 
and  with  fingers  that  almost  trembled  I tore  the  envelope 
off  a card  it  inclosed — an  invitation  to  a garden-party  at 
Marlborough  House.  I put  it  down  on  the  table,  and, 
as  a matter  of  course,  he  looked  at  it — it  was  so  like 
James  to  do  that.  ‘‘Do  they  invite  you  there?”  he 
said,  with  a surprise  that  nettled  me. 

“ And  why  not  ? ” I asked. 

“ I suppose  it  is  on  John’s  account — you  say  he  is  get- 
ting on.” 

“ I don’t  see  why  I should  not  be  invited  on  my  own 
account,”  I answered  haughtily. 

“Perhaps  H.  R.  H.  admires  you,”  he  said,  perhaps 
wishing  to  be  complimentary. 

“ You  have  skill  in  solving  difficult  problems,”  I an- 
swered, coldly.  He  looked  at  me  almost  severely,  then, 
with  the  air  of  a master,  he  said  : 

“ You  won’t  like  settling  down  quietly — some  day 
when  you  are  married — after  all  this.” 

“ Perhaps  my  husband  will  not  require  me  to  do  so.” 
“ Most  husbands  like  to  see  their  wives  settle  down 
and  look  after  their  houses  like  sensible  women.” 

“ Or,  I may  never  marry,”  I went  on,  taking  no  notice 
of  his  interruption.  He  was  silent,  and  then  in  a voice 
that  obviously  came  from  his  heart,  he  answered, 

“I  hope  you  will,  Madge.” 

So  I went  to  tea  in  Gower  street.  There  was  a mid- 
dle-aged governess  with  two  little  girls — well-behaved* 
white-faced  children  with  thin  noses,  and  long  tails  of 


62  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

plaited  dark  hair  hanging  down  their  backs,  just  enter- 
ing the  house  as  I drove  up.  I pitied  them  instantly, 
they  looked  like  puppets,  of  which  the  governess  pulled 
the  strings.  The  one  inducement  to  marry  James  would 
be  the  chance  of  setting  aright  the  lives  of  those  chil- 
dren. 

I wish  I could  describe  the  house  to  you,  that  well- 
kept,  well-to-do,  substantial  house  in  Gower  street — it 
made  me  shiver  as  a prison  might.  The  dining-room 
with  the  big  mahogany  sideboard,  a silver  salver  in  the 
middle  and  water-bottle  on  either  side ; the  leather-cov- 
ered chairs,  the  prints  on  the  wall — Martin’s  “Deluge”  and 
Queen  Victoria  in  her  robes.  I fancied  the  thick  soup, 
the  boiled  codfish,  the  roast  mutton,  and  apple-tart  that 
would  form  the  sort  of  dinner  served  there.  James 
watched  me,  visibly  proud  of  the  largeness  of  his  furni- 
ture and  the  dullness  of  the  abode — I think  he  particu- 
larly prided  himself  on  the  dullness ; it  was  that  that 
added  the  great  element  of  respectability  to  the  unmis- 
takable one  of  well-offness.  Then  he  took  me  up  into 
the  drawing-room,  a little  air  of  triumph  in  his  manner. 
It  was  pathetic  as  well  as  riduculous,  for  I felt  that  it  was 
dawning  on  him  that  for  himself  I should  never  love  him, 
and  he  was  trying  to  bribe  me  with  the  sight  of  his  well- 
to-do  house  into  marrying  him.  The  drawing-room,  he 
thought,  would  finish  me,  and  I tried  hard  to  look  sur- 
prised and  pleased.  Neat  and  precise,  white  walls  hung 
with  water-color  drawings  in  gilt  frames  at  equal  dis- 
tances ; easy-chairs  with  white  macassars  looking  like  lit- 
tle shrouds  on  their  backs ; little  tables  about  with  well- 
bound  books  upon  them  ; in  the  vases  dried  grass ; here 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  63 

and  there  some  Japanese  fans  as  the  sole  concession  to 
the  reigning  cheap  and  frivolous  taste  of  the  day.  Over 
the  chimney-piece  there  was  a very  large  glass  in  a hand- 
some gilt  frame.  I hated  myself  for  not  liking  what  he  and 
hundreds  of  others,  no  doubt,  would  call  a comfortable 
home  for  all  one’s  life ; but  I felt  that  if  I went  to  live 
in  that  house  with  James  for  my  husband,  and  those  poor 
little  girls  with  whom  I should  not  be  allowed  to  do  as  I 
liked  for  my  step-children,  I should  either  go  melan- 
choly mad  or  commit  some  awful  crime.  Yet  he  looked 
round  with  all  the  pride  of  ownership,  and  said,  with 
half-shy  self-congratulation,  that  he  had  got  on,  that  he 
was  richer  than  he  had  been  in  the  old  days  in  Wales. 

“Do  you  remember, ” he  asked,  “ when  I told  you  I 
had  just  three  hundred  a year?  Why,  I thought  it 
fairly  comfortable  then.”  He  dropped  his  voice,  though 
we  were  quite  alone.  The  governess  and  the  children 
were  in  the  dining-room  beneath  seeing  that  the  pound- 
cake came  up  with  the  tea,  perhaps.  “It  is  nearer 
three  thousand  now,*7  he  added — “more,”  he  whis- 
pered. 

“ I am  very  glad,”  I answered;  “ it  is  so  pleasant  to 
hear  of  one’s  friends  growing  rich.”  He  cleared  his 
throat;  he  looked  horribly  nervous;  he  pulled  out  a 
large  white  handkerchief  and  passed  it  slowly  along  his 
forehead.  Something  like  fright  overtook  me ; I crossed 
the  room  quickly  and  stopped  before  one  of  the  water- 
color  drawings,  blue  and  gray  with  some  patches  of 
green  on  it ; that  was  all  I knew  it  to  be. 

“Surely,  I know  that  place,”  I said  in  a voice  of 
deepest  interest. 


64  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


“I  don't  know/'  he  answered  impatiently;  “it  is 
one  of  poor  Amy’s  landscapes.”  Poor  Amy,  of  course, 
was  his  wife. 

“ Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  landscapes  are  very  much 
alike?”  I asked.  “Nature  has  only  a certain  number 
of  varieties.  One  bit  of  beach  is  a good  deal  like 
another  bit  of  beach.  Then  there  is  the  typical  English 
view — fields  dotted  with  big  trees,  here  and  there  a com- 
fortable-looking house  or  a picturesque  cottage  ; perhaps 
there  is  a streamlet  running  through  the  middle,  with 
nice  little  curves  and  vegetation  and  an  accompaniment 
of  low  hills  in  the  distance,  that  surely  might  be  called 
the  Englishman’s  own  landscape,  and — ” I had  been 
talking  against  time.  Here  luckily  the  door  opened  and 
tea  was  brought  in,  tea  with  thin  bread-and-butter  and 
pound-cake.  The  governess  and  children  followed 
meekly;  it  was  like  a procession.  James  became  al- 
most agitated  in  watching  the  arrangement  of  the  cups ; 
he  looked  quite  anxiously  at  the  governess  as  she  poured 
out  the  tea  in  a careful,  precise  manner  that  had  withal 
an  uncertainty  in  it.  It  was  clear  that  afternoon  tea  in 
the  drawing-room,  perhaps  afternoon  tea  at  all  in  that 
house,  was  an  event.  James  asked  the  governess  if  there 
ought  not  to  have  been  a table-cloth  (the  things  had 
been  brought  in  on  a large  silver  tray) ; he  told  the 
children,  who  had  looked  on  in  awe  while  we  drank 
our  tea  to  be  careful  not  to  drop  crumbs  on  the  carpet, 
when  finally,  as  a treat,  they  were  given  a bit  of  cake. 
I watched  them  eat  that  cake,  those  white-faced  children 
in  frills  and  tails ; they  did  it  solemnly,  holding  their 
plates  under  their  chins.  They  behaved  as  if  the  whole 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  65 

business  were  a function — I am  not  sure  that  they  did 
not  think  it  had  something  to  do  with  religion. 

Happily  for  me  the  clock  struck  six.  I started  up, 
saying  I must  go  that  very  moment ; might  I ask  them 
to  send  for  a hansom?  I looked  at  the  governess  in  a 
smiling  but  positive  manner.  Used  to  being  ruled,  she 
rose  instantly  and  rang  the  bell  before  James  had  the 
wit  to  invent  any  excuse  that  would  give  us  another  min- 
ute together.  The  hansom  was  announced.  I gave  one 
child  my  glove  to  button.  James  offered  to  do  it,  but  I 
shook  my  head,  said  good-bye  to  them  all  round.  I 
would  have  kissed  the  children,  but  feared  it  might  be 
taken  as  a sign  of  unusual  interest.  In  another  moment 
I was  in  the  cab;  the  doors  shut  with  a bang;  my 
spirits  rose  at  the  sound  ; I nodded  and  laughed  a good- 
bye at  James,  and  in  another  moment  felt  as  if  I were 
driving  away  from  my  possible  tomb. 

All  that  evening  I sat  and  thought  of  Bombay,  of 
you,  of  the  happy  days  at  Poona,  of  the  long  evenings 
when  we  sat  in  your  drawing-room  by  the  window,  that 
opened  onto  the  terrace  with  the  awning  over  it,  and 
talked  far  into  the  night.  You  were  so  happy  then  ; I 
can  see  you  now  in  your  white  dress,  and  hear  you  say, 
“ Oh,  Madge  ! ” when  my  wild  spirits  carried  me  away. 
Tom's  merry  laugh,  too;  how  it  rings  in  my  ears — 
“ All  over  and  finished,  over  and  finished,' ' I have  said 
to  myself  many  a time,  wondering  if  it  was  all  a dream. 

There  is  one  evening  that  always  comes  back  to  me 
when  I sit  and  think — a long,  sultry  evening  when  we 
sat  as  usual  on  our  low  chairs  round  the  wide-open  win- 
dows, and  took  in  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  the  hum  of 
5 


66  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

the  insects,  the  breath  of  that  dear  summer-time.  It 
seemed  too  much  to  bear — the  stillness,  the  hush,  the 
beauty ) it  was  as  though  the  world  in  dreamy  rapture 
had  stood  still.  I got  up  and  walked  softly  about  the 
room,  peering,  half  doubtfully,  into  the  dusky  corners, 
lest  some  strange  shadow  lurked  there.  You  called  me 
restless,  and  told  me  to  go  and  play.  I crossed  to  the 
piano ; it  stood  far  back  at  the  other  end,  from  the  win- 
dow, by  the  white-covered  sofa,  with  the  shaded  lamp 
near  it.  It  seems  absurd,  but  I shall  never  forget  that 
lamp-shade.  It  is  like  part  of  story  to  me ; on  it  was 
painted  a scene  from  “ Faust.”  I sat  down  and  played 
a wild  gypsy  dance  that  made  one’s  blood  tingle  with 
excitement ; it  conjured  up  a picture  of  dark  faces  and 
happy  laughter,  of  castanets  and  streaming  ribbons.  I 
turned  and  told  you  so,  and  Mark  Cuthbertson — he  was 
always  there,  do  you  remember  ? said,  in  his  laughing, 
gibing  way,  that  imagination  was  a delicious  land  into 
which  idle  folk  with  little  to  do  retreated.  I laughed 
and  went  on,  all  the  happier  for  his  mockery.  You  told 
me  to  sing,  and  I did — the  jewel-song  from  “ Faust” — 
perhaps  the  lamp-shade  had  suggested  it — and  then 
something  reminded  me  of 

“ When  that  time  steals  our  years  away.” 

I began  it,  but  could  not  go  on,  for  the  tears  came  to  my 
eyes ; they  trickled  down  my  cheeks,  though  in  the  dim 
light  no  one  guessed  it.  I got  up  and  went  back  to  you 
with  something  like  despair  in  my  heart,  despair,  be- 
cause I was  so  happy,  and  some  fiend  kept  whispering  to 
me,  “ It  will  soon  be  over — soon  be  over.” 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  67 

It  seems  like  a lifetime  since  those  days,  yet  it  is  only 
a few  years.  Oh,  my  poor  Nellie,  if  Death,  coveting 
one  of  that  happy  group,  had  but  taken  me,  and  left 
your  loved  one  with  you,  what  a blessed  thing  it  would 
have  been  for  us  both  ! For  my  world  was  at  its 
brightest  then.  A strange  happiness  filled  the  air,  and 
all  things  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  too  beautiful  to  be 
real.  Sometimes  since  I have  thought  that  there  should 
be  something  in  our  greatest  happiness  that  unconsciously 
killed,  so  that  no  sorrow  followed  on  it,  no  bitterness 
found  us  more,  and  the  happiness  would  be  ours  for  all 
eternity,  since  nothing  could  take  it  from  us.  Is  it  not 
always  twelve  by  the  clock  that  stops  at  noon  ; and  are 
not  the  strange  eyes  of  the  Sphinx  for  ever  and  ever  open 
wide  and  staring  over  the  great  sands,  though  all  the 
centuries  pass  and  all  the  nations  die  ? Oh,  to  have  had 
my  heart  lulled  with  that  great  content  in  it,  my  lips 
grow  cold  with  the  laughter  of  happiness  upon  them,  my 
eyes  dimmed  before  they  had  ever  looked  on  sorrow 
....  But  to  go  back.  Mark  Cuthbertson  scoffed  at 
me.  He  could  not  understand ; what  was  there  in  a 
song  to  make  one  tremble,  or  in  twilight  to  affect  one  ? 
We  talked  of  human  happiness.  You  said  it  hung  so  en- 
tirely on  human  beings  it  could  never  be  secure.  He 
answered  you  curtly. 

“ Yours  does,  mine  does  not.” 

I could  not  bear  to  hear  him  say  it,  though  why  I did 
not  know.  I got  up  and  walked  about  in  the  dim  room 
behind  us.  You  called  me  restless  again,  and  he  de- 
clared, half  laughing,  half  serious,  that  it  did  not  do  to 
indulge  in  a pleasant  state  of  feeling  too  long — it  un- 


68  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


nerved  one  afterwards ; and  then  he  wondered,  perhaps 
on  purpose,  if  there  were  any  scorpions  about,  and  we 
got  up  in  alarm,  for  we  were  always  in  terror  of  them. 
Tom  stood  with  his  arm  round  your  waist,  thinking  it 
was  too  dark  to  be  observed,  but  Mark  saw  it,  and  said 
good-night  in  a voice  that  was  half-amused,  half-reprov- 
ing, as  though  mentally  he  had  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
But  he  held  my  hand  for  a moment  as  if  he  were  going 
to  say  something,  and  then  remembered  we  were  not 
alone.  . . . 

All  night  the  scent  of  flowers  filled  my  room.  I 
could  not  sleep  for  thinking  how  good  it  would  be  to 
die,  there  on  that  soft  night  with  my  heart  brimful  of 
happiness  I did  not  comprehend.  ...  I get  up  from 
writing.  ...  I have  been  lying  down,  living  those 
days  and  nights  over  again.  I thought  them  over  and 
over  that  night,  after  the  visit  to  Gower  street,  and  for- 
got James  Harrison  altogether.  I forgot  him  the  next 
day  and  the  next,  and  then  there  came  a letter — a care- 
ful, neat  letter — with  an  offer  of  marriage  well  set  out. 
It  was  written  with  his  best  steel  pen,  and  in  his  most 
business-like  hand,  but  there  was  something  in  it  that 
touched  me,  that  went  to  my  heart  and  made  me  hate 
myself  for  my  conduct  in  days  gone  by  and  that  showed 
me  how  much,  in  spite  of  all  I had  done,  he  loved  me 
still.  I threw  it  down,  and,  putting  my  face  on  the  sofa 
cushion,  sobbed  for  shame  and  hatred  of  myself,  seeing 
clearly  all  I had  done  in  the  past,  and  knowing  well  I 
could  never  make  amends.  And  all  the  time,  Nell,  all 
through  that  hour  of  bitter  repentance,  before  my  eyes  I 
saw  you  in  the  drawing-room  at  Poona,  and  lived  again 


69 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

through  that  night  when  the  happiness  of  life  had  been 
so  great  that  I had  longed  to  die  befdre  the  dear  world 
round  me  changed  and  I had  learned  to  suffer.  For  I 
have  suffered,  in  the  years  since,  bitterest  pain  and 
keenest  sorrow — more  than  that,  burning  shame.  I may 
be  able  to  tell  you  ; I do  not  know.  ...  I walked  up 
and  down  with  James’  letter  in  my  hand,  wondering 
what  to  say  to  him.  I could  not  deceive  him  any 
longer,  cost  him  and  me  what  it  would.  At  last  I sat 
down  and  wrote  him  a long,  long  letter.  Before  it  was 
half  done  I knew  it  would  be  impossible  to  send  it ; but 
still  I went  on  and  on  as  if  for  my  own  eyes  to  see  writ- 
ten down  the  beginning  of  my  own  heart’s  history.  I 
say  the  beginning,  for  there  is  more  to  follow,  though  it  is 
far  apart  from  James.  This  letter  I could  not  send  to 
him  I send  to  you.  It  will  make  those  long-ago  days 
plain  to  you  at  last.  I am  glad  it  was  written,  since  it 
will  do  this;  but  don’t  say  I ought  to  marry  him,  that 
I owe  it  to  him  to  make  what  reparation  I can  for  the 
past — reparation  by  long  personal  sacrifice  would  only 
rouse  some  demon  in  me  to  do  worse  than  I,  my  very 
own  self,  would  do.  I could  make  reparation,  though  it 
took  the  form  of  burning  agony,  for  a man  I loved  ; but 
not  to  James  Harrison.  I am  not  strong  enough  for 
that,  or  good  enough.  Let  him  go.  He  will  find  some 
one  better  than  I,  who  will  prize  the  love  from  which  I 
shrink ; and  meanwhile — but  I cannot  go  on.  I hate 
myself  so  much,  and  dread  lest  you  will  hate  me,  too, 
after  reading  this,  and  yet  it  does  not  tell  you  the  worst 
of  me.  M. 


70  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

VIII. 

TO  SIR  NOEL  FRANKS. 

Dear  Sir  Noel, — Thank  you  for  the  lovely  flowers.  1 
have  been  arranging  them  in  the  Indian  pots  you  admired. 

I am  sorry  we  did  not  get  to  the  Bullers,  but  we  were 
so  tired  after  a very  long  dinner  that  we  came  home  in- 
stead of  going  on  anywhere  else.  Perhaps  we  shall 
meet  at  the  Geographical  Society  on  Wednesday.  I 
hope  you  will  not  be  too  learned  for  ordinary  capacities. 
Yours  sincerely, 

Madge  Brooke. 


IX. 

TO  MRS.  HAMILTON. 

Wednesday . 

Dearest  Nellie, — You  are  right.  Mark  Cuthbert- 
son — he  is  the  key  to  my  history. 

I wish  I had  never  seen  him,  for  in  some  strange  way, 
though  I do  not  know  whether  I hate  or  love  him  now, 
he  dominates  everything  I do  or  say.  He  is  never 
wholly  out  of  my  thoughts,  and  yet  it  is  possible  that  we 
may  never  even  meet  again.  I will  tell  you  about  him 
from  the  beginning  as  clearly  and  coherently  as  I can. 

It  is  a difficult  story  to  relate,  but  it  will  be  a relief  to 
write  it  out,  as  it  was  a relief  to  write  that  long  letter  to 
James  Harrison — the  letter  that  never  went. 

Mark  came  to  Daffodil  one  vacation  with  John,  years 
ago  when  I was  a little  girl.  Probably  you  do  not  re- 
member— I think  you  were  away,  or  else  we  did  not  see 
each  other  often  in  those  days.  He  was  eighteen  and  I 
ten  and  to  me  he  was  a grown  man.  He  romped  and 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  71 


played  with  me,  and  was  the  best  companion  in  the 
world.  I cried  the  day  he  went  away,  though  I soon 
forgot  him.  He  never  came  again.  He  passed  wholly 
out  of  my  life  till  John  and  I went  to  India.  We  landed 
at  Bombay,  and  the  first  person  we  met  was  Mark  Cuth- 
bertson.  He  was  artist  to  an  illustrated  paper,  as  you 
know.  I can  recall  the  expression  of  his  face,  the  tone 
of  his  voice,  his  first  words  as  well  as  if  it  were  but  yester- 
day. John  had  vanished  for  a moment,  and  I was 
alone,  strange  and  awkward.  Suddenly  a tall  rather 
handsome  man  came  up  to  me — 

“ Surely  you  are — ” I think  he  was  going  to  say  Miss 
Brooke,  for  he  hesitated,  and  then,  as  if  the  idea  of  such 
formality  were  absurd,  he  added  quickly,  with  a smile, 
“ Madge  ?”  He  said  it  as  though  he  had  expected  I 
should  understand  that  he  had  been  waiting  for  me. 
In  some  vague  way  I did  understand  ; in  some  strange, 
helpless  manner  I saw  for  a moment  into  the  future,  a 
misty  view  that  vanished  and  left  me  silent  and  afraid, 
but  I did  not  know  why  or  of  what.  Then  the  old 
habit  returned,  the  habit  of  accepting  life  as  it  comes — 
and  at  the  moment,  he  was  life — life  with  the  memory 
of  a past  in  which  we  had  been  good  friends  and  easy 
comrades.  “ You  don’t  mean  that  you  have  forgotten 
me?”  he  asked.  “ I am  Mark  Cuthbertson ; don’t 
you  remember  what  fun  we  had  at  Daffodil  when  you 
were  a little  girl  ? I knew  you  were  coming  by  this 
boat.  Where  is  Jack?  ” It  was  so  that  it  all  began. 

He  was  always  with  me  in  Bombay  just  as  he  was  in 
Poona.  He  came  every  day,  all  day,  half  the  night. 
There  was  in  his  being  with  us  a naturalness,  a matter- 


72  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

of-courseness,  that  admitted  of  no  question.  He  and 
John  were  the  dearest  friends  in  the  world — had  been  all 
their  lives ; were  brothers  in  all  but  name.  It  would 
have  been  strange,  especially  after  their  long  parting,  if 
they  had  not  been  together  as  much  as  possible,  and 
when  John  had  to  go  off  farther  about  the  railway,  and 
I was  left  with  you  at  Poona,  I think  it  was  a comfort 
to  him  that  Mark  was  near  and  able  to  look  after  me. 
You  liked  him,  your  husband  did,  we  all  did.  Do  you 
remember  how  thoroughly  he  did  as  he  chose  with  us 
all,  though  we  could  none  of  us  do  as  we  chose  with 
him,  or  put  a single  social  shackle  on  him,  and  how 
handsome  he  was  in  those  days,  how  unconventional  and 
different  from  most  of  the  men  who  hung  about  us? 

Poona  is  a dangerously  fascinating  place,  dear  Nell. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  mangoes,  the  wonderful  profusion  of 
roses,  the  lake,  the  determination  of  every  one  to  get 
all  the  enjoyment  possible  out  of  the  surroundings.  I 
do  not  know,  but  life  there  is  not  a matter  of  work,  of 
thought,  of  study,  but  rather  of  beauty,  of  happiness, 
of  innocence  and  enjoyment  of  living.  Don’t  you 
think  so?  I did  not  then,  but  insensibly  I felt  it;  and 
that  was  more  dangerous  than  thinking  it  and  being 
awake.  You  were  taken  up  at  that  time  with  your  own 
life,  with  Tom,  with  your  baby,  with  all  that  belongs  to 
life’s  happiness,  so  that  you  did  not  notice  what  was  go- 
ing on  with  me,  and  something  held  my  lips  fast. 
There  was  nothing  to  conceal,  but  it  was  impossible  to 
talk  to  Mark.  The  beginning  of  my  madness  was  on 
me,  I suppose.  He  and  I together  only  talked  of  books 
and  politics  and  pictures,  mostly  of  pictures  and  of  sub- 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  73 

jects  for  them,  and  of  music — the  usual  talk  of  people  in 
our  position  thrown  much  with  each  other.  Sentiment 
we  never  talked  ; he  told  me  that  he  was  poor ; that  he 
did  not  believe  in  love ; that  he  had  a dread  of  matri- 
mony; that  he  did  not  care  much  for  human  beings, 
though  he  was  fond  of  John.  Women,  I learned  in- 
stinctively, he  did  not  believe  in — he  liked  to  look  at 
pretty  faces,  but  he  did  not  trust  them  ; he  was  not  able, 
as  a rule,  to  make  a woman  his  friend.  He  thought 
women  inferior  to  men,  that  they  should  be  in  subjection 
to  them,  should  give  way  to  them,  should  be  content 
with  their  own  part  in  the  world — and  their  part  was 
first  to  be  pretty  and  submissive  and  charming,  and  then 
as  they  grew  older  to  be  drudges,  or  if  not  exactly  that, 
to  look  after  home,  to  mother  children,  and  leave  the 
rest  of  life  to  the  stronger  sex.  His  views  regarding 
women  were  a good  deal  like  James  Harrison’s.  Only 
the  one  man  had  a world  of  power  over  me,  and  the 
other  had  none;  one  was  clever  and  fascinating,  and  one 
was  not ; from  one  the  least  control  in  the  world  was 
not  to  be  borne,  and  from  the  other  it  was  sweetness  not 
to  be  described.  I was  at  the  age  when  masterfulness  in 
a man  strikes  a woman  as  manliness,  and  gives  him  at 
once  a hold  upon  her.  Now  that  I am  older  and  see 
clearly,  I know  well  enough  how  to  measure  the  strength 
of  the  masterful  man — it  does  not  take  long.  I know 
his  inward  grudgingness  towards  women,  his  shallow- 
ness, his  unconscious  fear  of  being  found  out.  Yet  even 
now  I believe  I could  bend  my  neck  thankfully  to  be 
Mark’s  slave,  and  think  the  slavery  sweetest  life.  I 
loathe  myself  for  it,  but  it  is  so,  dear  Nell. 


74  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

He  gave  me  some  lessons  in  sketching  ; it  is  always  a 
dangerous  thing  to  take  lessons  in  anything  from  a fas- 
cinating man,  and  in  sketching  out-of-doors  with  the 
mangoes  shading  us  and  the  rose-breath  filling  the  air, 
and  the  sunshine  and  the  blue  sky  and  the  delicious 
sense  of  nature  at  her  highest  noon  that  India  always 
gives — what  else  could  one  of  two  at  least  do  but  fall  in 
love  ? We  took  long  rides  together,  too,  for  I sat  badly, 
and  he  wanted  to  improve  me,  so  we  sauntered  and  can- 
tered beside  the  lake  that  seemed  to  be  forever  conscious 
of  its  own  beauty,  and  rejoicing  beneath  the  heavenly 
blue  it  reflected.  He  hung  about  me  always,  and  con- 
trolled me  altogether,  and  I rejoiced,  as  a woman  always 
does,  in  being  controlled  by  a clever  man  ; even  you 
saw  enough  of  him  to  know  that  he  was  clever,  though 
he  was  too  indolent  to  gain  the  success  that  was  his  due. 
John  was  devoted  to  him,  and  often  while  we  were  at 
Bombay  sat  up  far  into  the  night  talking  with  him.  He 
talked  well  on  most  subjects,  and  had  an  original  way 
of  looking  at  things,  a pleasant  cynicism,  a carelessness 
about  the  emotional  side  of  life,  though  he  awoke  it  in 
all  about  him,  that  fascinated  me  entirely. 

John  was  delighted  that  Mark  and  I were  good  com- 
panions. He  had  a boundless  belief  in  his  friend,  and 
thought  it  an  excellent  thing  that  there  in  India  a man 
older  than  myself — he  was  seven-and-twenty — clever, 
and  so  on,  should  in  a brotherly  fashion  look  after  me. 
He  knew  that  Mark  had  not  love-making  or  matrimony 
in  his  mind,  though  if  it  had  been  otherwise  he  would, 
I think,  have  been  glad  enough.  John  himself  has 
always  been  much  more  taken  up  with  the  intellectual 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  75 


than  the  human  side  of  life,  and  he  forgets  how  much 
the  majority  of  people  concern  themselves  about  the 
latter.  Dear  old  John  ! He  has  never  been  in  love 
yet,  save  with  you  when  you  were  ten,  dear  Nell.  I 
hope  he  will  one  day  love  some  dear  woman  who  will 
understand  how  true  and  great  a heart  she  has  won. 

But  do  you  understand  now  how  my  relations  with 
Mark  came  about,  how  easily  things  drifted  ? It  was  a 
happy  time  for  me  ; a strange  new  life,  and  before  it 
there  seemed  to  be  a happy,  hazy  future.  But  what  had  I 
to  do  with  that  ? The  present  was  sufficient ; I troubled 
about  nothing,  but  just  took  the  days  as  they  came ; and 
all  were  spent  with  him,  or  were  full  of  thoughts  of  him. 
So  it  was  that,  without  any  love-making,  without  a single 
word  that  my  heart  could  lay  hold  of,  we  yet  grew  very 
close  indeed,  and  seemed  unable  to  live  apart. 

Once  I made  him  angry,  for  our  relations  were  dis- 
tinct enough  in  a way.  He  was  autocrat,  and  I obeyed 
him.  It  seemed  natural  when  I remembered  that,  years 
ago  at  Daffodil,  he  had  only  played  with  me  on  condi- 
tion that  I was  good.  I offended  him  that  afternoon  at 
Bombay.  I forget  why;  but  he  did  not  come  near  me 
again.  And  the  next  day,  when  he  dropped  in  at 
breakfast-time  to  show  John  a series  of  sketches  he  had 
made,  he  hardly  spoke  to  me.  It  nearly  broke  my 
heart.  In  his  sight  and  in  John’s  I held  my  head  high, 
but  secretly  I wept  floods  of  tears.  . It  seemed  as  if  the 
world  was  at  an  end. 

That  evening,  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  he 
had  shown  the  sketches  to  John,  there  was  a ball  at 
General  Durham’s.  I wore  a white  dress ; I put  white 


76  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 

flowers  in  my  hair.  I knew  that  my  face  was  white,  too, 
and  my  heart  was  a load  too  heavy  for  mortal  woman  to 
carry.  I stood  by  John’s  side  watching  the  dancers. 
He  went  off  with  his  partner  and  left  me  alone.  I saw 
you  in  the  midst  of  a group  at  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
but  could  not  drag  myself  to  you.  Some  one  asked  me 
to  dance— two  or  three  did — but  I shook  my  head  and 
sat  still  and  cold  and  sad  in  the  corner  in  which  John 
had  left  me.  Strange  cords  in  my  heart  vibrated  to  the 
music,  the  lights  blinded  me.  I felt  like  a woman 
slowly  turning  to  stone.  Above  me  there  seemed  to  be 
a heavy  cloud  in  which  was  the  whole  weight  of  the 
dreary  heaven.  It  was  coming  down — down  on  my 
head.  Soon  I should  fall  beneath  it,  crushed,  yet  still  I 
sat  blankly  staring  at  the  ball-room,  and  as  I hoped  mak- 
ing no  sign  of  the  deadening  that  was  going  on  within 
me.  All  this,  Nell,  and  yet  I give  you  my  word  that  I 
did  not  know  it  was  love.  It  is  long  before  a girl,  and 
a simple  one,  as  I was  then — though  I had  already 
treated  one  lover  badly,  and  could  remember  the  pro- 
testations of  others  since  my  arrival  in  India — lets  her- 
self know  what  her  malady  is ; long  enough  before  she 
dares  say  to  herself,  “ I love  him.”  Though  her  heart 
beats  quickly  when  she  hears  a step,  and  all  the  wide 
world  changes  at  the  sound  of  a voice,  she  remains  a 
mystery,  a secret  from  herself,  a creature  of  new  aches 
and  joys  and  indefinite  longings  till  he  speaks,  till  he 
bids  her  awake  to  a new  life  and  be  blessed  in  it,  or 
until  some  shock  makes  her  understand. 

Suddenly,  for  I did  not  see  him  coming,  Mark  was 
before  me. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  77 

“What  is  the  matter  ?”  he  asked.  “You  are  not 
dancing  ? ” 

“No,  I cannot;  I am  tired,”  I answered.  He  looked 
at  me  wonderingly. 

“ Let  us  go  into  the  garden,”  he  said  ; “we  shall  be 
alone  there.” 

With  a long  ^igh  of  relief,  I put  my  arm  through  his, 
and  without  another  word  we  left  the  ball-room.  The 
garden  was  deserted.  There  was  a long  winding  path- 
way, thick  with  flowers  and  palms  on  either  side,  and 
then,  of  course,  the  inevitable  mango  grove.  We  went 
towards  it.  The  air  was  still  and  overladen  with  per- 
fume; the  ground  was  strewn  with  petals  from  the  rose- 
bushes. The  darkness  seemed  to  have  gathered  with 
strange  intensity  into  corners  and  beneath  trees. 
The  light  from  the  ball-room  did  not  reach  us,  but  we 
saw  each  other’s  faces  clearly  against  a background  of 
dim  foliage.  We  went  up  and  down  beneath  the  man- 
goes without  a word.  It  seemed  at  first  as  if  we  must 
each  think  silently,  and  to  speak  would  be  impossible. 
At  last  he  turned  and  asked  me  half  mockingly. 

“ Have  we  made  it  up  ? ” 

I could  not  answer,  but  just  nodded  my  head,  and  we 
went  on  again  in  silence.  Then  all  at  •nee  he  stopped, 
under  a lamp  that  twinkled  by  a sort  & summer-house, 
and  looked  at  me,  at  my  face,  at  my  trembling  hands, 
and  slowly  down  at  my  white  dress  and  the  white  flowers 
already  drooping.  “ I don’t  know  what  you  have  done  to 
yourself,”  he  said  in  a low  tone,  more  to  himself  than 
to  me,  “ but  you  are  quite  beautiful  to-night.”  It  sent 
a thrill  of  joy  through  me  ; it  was  compensation  for  all 


78  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


the  weary  hours.  I never  dreamed  of  his  thinking  me 
beautiful,  of  his  even  looking  at  me  at  all.  No  words 
can  say  how  much  I thought  of  him,  how  little  I thought 
of  myself.  “ We  won’t  quarrel  anymore,”  he  said.  “ It 
is  too  foolish;  ” and  we  turned  towards  the  mangoes 
again.  But  the  silence  was  sweet  enough  now,  and  all 
the  world  had  changed.  Behind  every  dark  corner  there 
hid  some  strange  secret,  for  the  joy  of  which  I was  not  yet 
ready.  Overhead  the  sky  had  lifted,  the  weight  had 
gone  from  my  heart,  and  instead  there  had  fallen  on  it  a 
great  content — it  was  like  drinking  in  life  when  life  had 
nearly  gone.  All  at  once  I slipped,  and  should  have 
fallen,  but  that  he  pulled  me  up  and  held  me  firmly.  He 
tried  as  he  did  so  to  see  into  my  eyes,  but  I could  not 
raise  them  even  in  that  dim  light. 

“ You  were  nearly  down,”  he  said,  tenderly;  “ What 
were  you  thinking  of — our  quarrel?” 

“ Yes,”  I answered,  helplessly,  “ I am  so  sorry — ” 

“ We  will  never  be  foolish  again,”  he  whispered,  and 
held  me  in  his  arms  for  half  a moment  and  kissed  me ; 
“ we  will  be  much  wiser.”  He  spoke  as  if  all  our  lives 
we  were  going  to  be  together.  I could  not  be  angry  at 
what  he  had  done,  or  resent  it ; all  power  to  guide  my- 
self seemed  to  have  gone.  Everything  had  changed,  it 
was  as  though  we  had  entered  another  world  out  there  in 
the  Indian  garden.  Behind  us  the  gates  of  the  old 
world  had  shut,  and  in  the  new  one  there  walked  only 
one  man  and  one  woman — he  and  I. 

He  grew  colder  after  that  night,  more  guarded  in  his 
manner,  I thought  it  was,  because  he  was  ashamed,  as  I 
was ; but  looking  back  now  by  the  light  of  after  years  I 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

understand.  He  tried  to  impress  on  me  more  clearly 
than  before  that  he  had  no  intention  of  marrying.  But 
what  was  that,  or  what  was  anything  in  the  future  to  me  ? 
I cared  for  nothing  but  that  most  happy  present,  and 
could  not  look  beyond  it. 

When  we  left  India  he  managed  to  get  sent  to  Malta ; 
it  was  just  when  the  Indian  troops  were  going  there,  and 
all  Europe’s  eyes  were  turned  in  that  direction.  He  went 
by  our  ship,  and  for  those  long  days  at  sea  we  were 
thrown  together  with  the  completeness  that  only  happens 
on  board  ship.  I do  not  know,  Nell — into  another’s 
heart  one  cannot  see — but  I think  he  did  love  me  then — 
he  could  not  keep  away  from  me ; oh,  he  must  have 
loved  me,  Nellie ; I know  he  did  then  and  in  the  dear 
months  afterwards,  and  if  I lost  him,  it  was  my  fault  and 
mine  only.  I am  glad  it  came  into  my  heart — the  great 
love ; the  overwhelming  blind  passion  that  did  come  for 
him  later ; the  price  has  been  hard  to  pay ; the  years 
long  and  bitter  since,  but  life  without  it  would  have  been 
a dull  and  sorry  play.  For  all  its  folly,  all  its  mistakes, 
all  its  sin,  I would  not  have  missed  my  life  to  be  a saint 
in  heaven. 

I think  it  dawned  on  John  while  we  were  on  board 
the  Deccan  that  Mark  and  I were  fond  of  each  other ; 
but  he  looked  surprised  when  nothing  came  of  it,  and 
he  used  to  watch  me  narrowly  with  a half-puzzled  man- 
ner. Then  he  evidently  concluded  it  was  only  friend- 
ship, and,  having  so  arranged  it  in  his  mind,  went  back 
to  his  own  work  and  was  blind  enough  for  long  to  come. 

At  Malta  we  left  Mark  and  came  on  alone.  I remem- 
ber the  keen  pain  of  parting — pain  that  was  sweet 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

hough,  for  it  showed  us  how  much  we  were  to  each 
other ; but  it  seemed  as  if  lives  so  closely  bound  as  ours 
could  never  wholly  be  apart  again.  I do  not  think  they 
can  be,  either — I feel  that  still — though  it  is  getting  to 
be  years  since  I saw  his  face.  He  gave  me  a long,  long 
look  as  he  said  good-bye.  “ We  will  meet  in  England, 
dear,”  he  said.  He  had  never  called  me  dear  before. 
I remembered  that  all  the  way  home,  and  again  and 
again  in  my  heart  listened  to  the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he 
said  it — all  the  way  home,  the  way  that  took  me  farther 
and  farther  from  him,  and  from  the  happiest  days  of  my 
whole  life.  In  some  frightened  way  I knew  then  what 
had  happened  to  me,  knew  that  I loved  him,  that  he 
was  life  of  my  life — as  he  is  still,  Nell,  and  will  be 
always,  bitter  or  sweet,  greatest  pain  or  greatest  joy,  but 
still  very  life  of  life  till  death  draws  down  the  curtain 
and  the  lights  are  all  put  out. 

Oh,  Nell,  what  a sentimental  fool  I am,  and  how  I 
love  him  even  now — save  when  I hate  and  loathe  and 
scorn  him ! 

You  shall  have  the  rest,  but  not  to-day.  It  is  more 
difficult  to  explain — to  excuse. 

Jack  often  speaks  of  you,  dear.  I wish  you  could 
come  for  a bit  and  stay  with  us. 

Madge. 

X. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Saturday . 

Yes,  I will  go  on,  dear  Nell. 

Mark  wrote  constantly  from  Malta.  I only  lived 
from  letter  to  letter,  though  there  were  no  protestations 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  81 


in  them,  no  words  of  endearment ; they  might  have 
been  sent  to  a sister,  or  to  any  friend  he  knew  well. 
Yet  the  morning  that  brought  me  one  made  the  whole 
day  a festival.  How  well  James  Harrison  has  been 
avenged  if  he  did  but  know  it ! 

At  first  John  was  curious  about  Mark’s  letters,  but 
when  he  hgd  seen  one  or  two  he  was  satisfied.  He  did 
not  suspect  a love  affair  because  a man  and  woman  were 
moderately  intimate.  From  his  point  of  view,  too, 
Mark  was  a sort^of  other  brother  to  me,  and  that  he 
might  be  anything  else  from  mine  did  not  occur  to  him 
after  his  suspicions  at  Malta  had  passed.  Besides,  for 
all  his  cleverness,  John  is  very  simple,  and  never  sus- 
pects people  of  living  lives  of  which  they  give  no  ac- 
count to  those  immediately  about  them ; and  this  is  the 
key  to  his  conduct  throughout. 

In  October,  Mark  came  back,  and  then  we  had  things 
all  our  own  way.  He  had  determined  to  give  up  most 
of  his  illustrating,  to  take  a studio,  and  do  serious  work. 
There  were  many  historical  subjects  he  wanted  to  paint. 
His  pictures  always  had  historical  or  literary,  but  never 
a sentimental  interest.  This  was,  I think,  because  the 
last  would  have  given  a certain  importance  to  women, 
and  he  looked  on  women  as  an  inferior  type  of  human- 
ity, not  worth  the  serious  attention  often  given  them.  I 
told  you  this  in  my  last  letter,  and  I want  to  impress  it 
upon  you,  for  I think  it  explains  him,  and  perhaps  ac- 
counts for  his  conduct  to  me.  He  is  very  passionate 
and  cannot  help  being  attracted  by  freshness  and  pretti- 
ness, but  of  higher  love  for  a woman  he  is  incapable. 
He  liked  me  because  I was  pretty,  and  twenty.  When 
6 


• 82  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

the  effect  of  that  had  worn  off  he  left  me.  He  would 
talk  of  outside  things  with  me,  but  nothing  I said  re- 
) garding  them,  or  that  any  woman  said,  had  weight  with 
him.  He  cannot  feel  it  possible  that  women  ever  really 
influence  the  intellectual  lives  of  men,  though  he  thinks 
it  well  that  they  should  know  how  to  talk  a certain 
amount  of  educated  small  talk — it  makes  them  more 
amusing  while  their  charm  lasts.  Still,  talk  as  well  as 
they  will,  there  is  no  opinion  they  express  on  which  he 
does  not  think  man  should  firmly  put  his  foot  in  the 
long  run.  For  man  is  woman’s  master,  and  it  is  only 
while  she  is  new  and  fresh  to  him  that  she  is  to  be  hu- 
mored, to  have  her  ways  and  whims  considered,  to  be 
flattered  and  caressed.  She  is  of  no  account  at  all  after- 
wards ; she  may  be  allowed  to  live  in  the  world,  but 
that  is  all.  This  is  the  man  I have  loved,  Nell ; the 
man  for  whom  I have  spoiled  my  life,  and  made  most 
things  on  which  a woman  builds  her  dearest  hopes  im- 
possible. 

But  to  go  on.  Mark  came  back  and  took  a studio. 
It  belonged  to  a cousin  of  his,  Mrs.  Berry,  a widow  with 
grown-up  children ; it  was  at  the  end  of  a long  garden, 
away  from  the  house  in  which  she  lived,  and  had  a sep- 
arate entrance  at  the  back,  so  that  his  comings  and 
goings  and  visitors  were  quite  unknown  to  her.  He 
would  not  have  taken  it  had  it  been  otherwise ; for  he 
hated  being  commented  on  in  any  way.  He  disliked 
relations,  too,  and  told  me  once  that  it  did  not  “ do  to 
be  intimate  with  them,  they  always  interfered  with  you.” 

The  Berrys  were  kindly  people,  generally  anxious 
about  money  matters ; and  Mrs.  Berry  always  had  in  her 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  83 


mind  the  placing  out  in  the  world  of  her  many  sons,  for 
whom  Mark  had  a sort  of  secret  contempt,  -chiefly  be- 
cause they  were  so  tall  and  pale  and  speechless.  The 
worst  of  them  all  was  that  they  thought  it  showed  dis- 
crimination of  character  to  criticise  people,  finding  a 
moderate  amoiSnt  of  fault,  so  that  while  you  were  with 
them  you  always  had  the  feeling  that  you  would  be  dis- 
cussed when  you  had  gone.  Mark  had  once  lived  with 
them,  and  knew  them  well.  He  had  no  other  relations, 
I think;  perhaps  this  was  why.  John  and  he  drew  so 
close  as  boys,  and  when  they  were  both  men  the  senti- 
ment of  youth  kept  them  together.  There  was  little  else 
in  common  between  them,  though  it  was  years  before 
they  realized  this. 

I shall  never  forget  the  happy  morning  when  Mark 
came  back.  He  came  to  us  the  very  hour  he  arrived.  It 
was  breakfast-time,  and  John  was  at  home,  so  he  did 
not  talk  much  to  me,  but  the  look  in  his  eyes  was 
enough,  and  the  tone  in  which  he  said,  “ And  Madge?  ” 
when  he  let  go  John’s  hand  to  grasp  mine,  made  my 
heart  leap  for  joy.  He  was  handsomer  than  ever,  full 
of  life  and  fun ; no  words  could  describe  his  attraction. 
You  remember  what  he  was  in  India,  and  can  surely  un- 
derstand my  infatuation.  There  was  about  him  a dar- 
ing, a strength,  a generosity  in  unexpected  ways,  a cer- 
tain happy,  careless  courtesy  that  carried  all  before  him. 
It  maddens  me  to  think  of  him.  Sometimes  I feel  that 
he  is — that  he  must  be  everything  good  and  true  and 
manly.  Perhaps  there  was  in  my  nature  that  which 
brought  out  all  the  worst  possibilities  in  his  ; or  he  may 
have  misconstrued  something  I said  and  did,  and  judged 


84  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

me  by  it ; or  perhaps  the  Berrys,  whom  I knew  well 
later  on,  unwittingly  made  remarks  that  gave  him  a 
wrong  conception  of  me ; and  yet  he  knew  me  long  be- 
fore they  did. 

He  was  in  wonderful  spirits,  full  of  his  studio,  of  pic- 
tures he  was  going  to  paint,  of  books  we  must  both 
read,  of  John’s  work,  of  politics,  of  everything  that  was 
going  on  in  the  world.  That  was  a part  of  his  great 
charm,  he  was  so  thoroughly  alive,  right  down  to  his 
finger  tips,  for  all  his  air  of  indolence  and  leisure.  He 
seemed  to  know  everything  that  was  in  the  air  long  be- 
fore others  talked  of  it ; I used  to  look  at  him  some- 
times, and  think  that  he  was  a part  of  the  universe,  and 
in  touch  with  the  whole  of  it. 

You  will  wonder  at  my  alternations  of  feeling,  but  by 
them  you  must  measure  alike  the  joy  he  gave  me  and 
the  sorrow  and  bitterness  he  cost  me.  In  that  clear, 
gray  October  that  brought  him  back,  the  world  was  filled 
with  a new  life  that  intoxicated  me,  till  I hardly  knew 
right  from  wrong,  or  black  from  white,  or  anything  at 
all  save  that  every  day  I saw  his  face  and  heard  his 
voice  ; to-day,  and  to-morrow,  and  for  endless  to-mor- 
rows, I thought  the  story  would  be  the  same. 

‘*1  shall  take  Madge  in  hand,”  he  said  to  John; 
“she  draws  very  well,  and  would  paint  well,  too,  if  she 
would  only  work.  We  must  make  her.” 

At  first  he  tried  to  come  only  when  John  was  at  home, 
but  this  could  not  go  on  if  we  were  to  work  together ; 
for  John  had  an  office  at  Westminster,  and  went  to  it 
regularly  an  hour  after  breakfast,  and  did  not  return  till 
nearly  dinner-time.  All  day  long  I was  left  to  my  own 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  85 


devices,  and  there  was  no  one  (except  Aunt  Maria,  who 
was  at  Daffodil)  to  tell  me  the  conventional  things  I 
ought  to  do,  the  unconventional  thing  I ought  not  to  do, 
lest  the  world  should  put  a false  construction  on  them. 

Well,  Mark  used  to  come  in  the  morning  after  John 
had  gone,  and  we  went  into  the  little  box-room  I called 
my  study,  to  paint,  and  there  was  no  one  to  disturb  us.  I 
do  not  think  John  realized  how  much  we  were  together 
— I never  told  him ; something  kept  my  lips  closed, 
though,  mind,  had  it  occurred  to  him  to  ask  me,  I 
should  have  told  him.  I do  not  suppose  he  would  have 
objected,  for  he  was  devoted  to  Mark. 

We  really  worked  at  first ; I think  Mark  had  made  up 
his  mind  not  to  make  love  to  me,  so  that  no  idea  of 
wrong  entered  my  head,  and  I gave  myself  up  to  the 
happiness  of  life.  But  gradually  things  altered ; we 
might  be  friends  and  artists,  but  we  were  man  and 
woman,  too,  and  it  was  not  given  to  us  to  be  different 
from  the  rest  of  humanity.  Do  people,  when  they  are 
young  and  full  of  life  and  happiness,  with  most  of  the 
world's  unknowns  before  them,  go  on  spending  long 
days  together,  week  after  week  for  merely  work  and  talk 
of  work  ? Not  often. 

I think  we  struggle  with  Fate  or  Nature — call  it  which 
you  will — and  tried  to  keep  up  the  old  relations  as  long 
as  possible.  We  tried  to  work  steadily,  but  the  brushes 
were  too  often  laid  aside  ; we  had  so  much  to  say.  We 
talked  of  ourselves;  we  were  jealous  and  curious;  we 
looked  at  each  other  long  and  often,  and  then  were  half 
ashamed ; our  hands  met,  and  all  our  souls  knew  it. 
The  tone  of  his  voice,  the  sound  of  his  step,  the  sight 


86  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

of  his  face,  how  much  they  were  to  me  ! I counted  the 
last  moments  before  he  came,  they  were  so  long  in 
going;  the  last  before  he  went,  they  seemed  to  fly  while 
we  lingered  over  our  parting  words.  It  could  not  go  on 
long — it  did  not. 

“It  is  very  difficult  to  paint  in  this  little  hole, ” he 
said  one  afternoon,  when  we  went  back  to  our  work  after 
lunch;  “we  want  a studio  to  ourselves/’  he  laughed. 

“How  lovely  it  would  be,”  I answered.  “I  have 
never  even  been  inside  a real  studio.  I should  so  like 
to  see  one.” 

“ To  see  a studio?  Put  on  your  things  and  come  and 
see  mine  ; it  is  better  than  a box-room.  I have  wanted 
you  to  see  it;  we  shall  never  work  here.” 

I hesitated. 

“ Make  haste,”  he  said.  “ Then  perhaps  we  shall  be 
able  to  do  a little  there  before  it  is  too  dark.” 

“Do  you  think  I really  might  go ! ” I asked,  doubt- 
fully. 

“Of  course,”  he  answered;  “why  not?  Everyone 
goes  to  studios.  Besides,  it  is  in  the  Berry’s  garden. 
We  will  have  tea  with  them  before  we  leave.” 

That  set  all  doubts  at  rest.  I went  to  put  on  my  hat, 
and  started  at  my  own  face  when  I beheld  it  in  the  glass. 
Love  had  changed  it  till  it  was  almost  beautiful.  He 
thought  so  too ; I could  see  that  when  he  looked  silently 
and  half-wonderingly  at  me  in  the  one  moment  before 
we  left  the  house.  Perhaps  he  divined  in  that  moment 
all  that  was  going  on  in  my  heart.  What  did  it  matter? 
Had  he  not  kissed  me  long  since  under  the  mango-trees 
at  Poona?  Would  he  have  done  it  had  he  not  loved  me, 


LOVE  LETTERS.  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  87 


had  he  not  known  that  I loved  him  back  ? All  things 
are  not  said  in  words,  some  are  told  in  a language  that 
has  no  sound  for  ears  to  hear. 

We  jumped  into  a hansom  and  drove  to  Grove  End 
Road.  I could  have  sung  for  joy  as  I went  along,  but 
that  all  the  time  I listened — to  what  ? Nellie,  do  you 
know  how  the  rattle  of  a train,  the  wheels  of  a carriage, 
the  thud-thud  of  a steamer  will  sometimes  keep  time  to 
a song  that  no  lips  sing,  only  your  own  joyous  heart  on 
some  few  blessed  times  in  your  life  ? As  we  went  along 
every  sound  kept  time  to  a silent  song  in  my  heart : 
“ Happiest  in  the  world,  there’s  no  one  like  him,  no  one 
at  all — happiest  in  the  world,”  the  wheels  ground  out  as 
they  went  round  and  round.  I looked  at  the  people  we 
passed,  and  they  looked  back  at  me  as  if  they  knew  how 
happy  I was,  as  if  they  knew  that  I was  with  my  lover. 
We  sped  on  swiftly.  What  a gay  and  happy  place  was 
London ; even  on  a drear  October  day  like  that  the  streets 
were  full  of  busy  people,  the  very  air  seemed  full  of  life. 
How  wonderful  it  was  to  be  a girl,  to  be  beside  Mark  and 
going  to  his  studio ! Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear  who  was  all  the 
world  to  me  ! I looked  at  his  face  shyly,  and  he  laughed 
— for  happiness,  it  seemed  ; did  he,  too,  catch  the  burden 
of  the  song  that  all  things  sang  to  me  ? On  we  whirled  ; 
gray  was  the  sky  overhead,  sombre  the  dress  of  the  passing 
folk,  brown  the  London  roads,  ugly  the  cabs  and  omni- 
buses, heavy  and  slow  the  lumbering  carts;  what  did  it  mat- 
ter, for  at  last  I tasted  the  draught  of  joy  that  love  held  to 
my  lips — tasted,  and  all  things  were  made  beautiful  ? I 
was  so  proud  of  loving  him,  thankful  that  it  was  my  lot 
to  do  so,  for  was  he  not  the  best  in  the  world,  wisest  and 


88  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

cleverest?  And  good?  Oh  yes,  good,  too;  he  was  too 
grand,  too  wonderful  altogether  in  my  girlish  eyes  to  be 
anything  else.  Fool  that  I was,  dear  Nell,  for  I knew 
nothing.  To  him  all  things  were  known,  to  me  all  un- 
known. I was  asleep,  but  he  was  awake.  Sometimes  I 
wonder  if  secretly  that  day  he  scorned  me  because  I 
loved  him,  because  I trusted  him.  Trusted  him  ! I 
would  have  staked  my  life  that  every  word  he  said  was 
true,  and  every  look  an  index  of  his  heart.  It  never 
once  entered  into  my  mind — how  should  it  ? — that  all 
the  time  a self  of  which  I knew  nothing,  thought  and 
drew  conclusions  and  managed  him — a self  totally  dif- 
ferent from  the  one  he  showed  me. 

We  stopped  at  last  by  a garden  door  behind  Grove 
End  Road — not  at  the  BeVry’s  house,  but  at  the  studio 
at  the  far  end  of  their  garden.  We  could  not  see  the 
house  for  the  thick  trees  between.  I jumped  down 
quickly,  the  excitement  was  flashing  from  my  eyes  and 
burning  on  my  cheeks,  and  made  me  almost  dumb.  It 
seemed  as  if  I was  about  to  pass  into  his  life  for  a space, 
to  see  his  work,  the  surroundings  among  which  he  spent 
his  time,  the  things  that  suggested  thoughts  to  him  and 
made  him  work,  made  him  known  to  the  great  world 
beyond  our  two  selves — the  world  that  would  one  day 
speak  of  him  as  a master.  What  an  idealist  is  a girl, 
dear  Nellie,  and  what  strange  dreams  are  sometimes 
dreamed  behind  the  most  innocent  eyes  in  the  world ! 

Mark  paid  the  cabman,  and  still  with  the  smile  on  his 
lips  and  the  happy  look  that  had  come  into  his  eyes 
since  we  started,  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a key  with 
which  he  opened  the  door  of  the  studio.  I entered,  but 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  89 


stopped  on  the  threshold.  All  was  silent,  dim  and  cold 
— waiting  for  us. 

“Come  in,”  he  said,  pulling  back  a blind  that  had 
been  drawn  over  the  high  north  window.  But  still  I 
waited  by  the  door.  Everything  looked  cold  and  com- 
fortless, as  though  the  whole  place  had  been  asleep  and 
did  not  realize  yet  that  it  was  time  to  awake — that  we 
had  come,  and  there  was  some  life  to  live  through ; a 
chapter  in  two  people’s  history  for  the  walls  to  listen  to 
and  look  down  upon.  He  stood  for  a minute  watching 
the  effect  of  the  keen  gray  light  coming  in,  and  then 
turned  to  me  with  a sigh  of  relief:  “I  have  always 
wanted  to  see  you  here,”  he  said,  “and  now  you  have 
come.  But  why  do  you  stand  there,  my  child?”  I 
shivered  with  cold,  with  the  silence,  and  could  not 
speak.  He  came  over  to  me ; he  took  my  hand  and  led 
me  farther  into  the  room.  “I  have  often  thought  how 
well  we  could  paint  here.  In  the  future  it  shall  be  our 
workshop,  and  we  will  astonish  the  world,  eh?”  His 
voice  was  a lover’s  voice,  my  heart  knew  that  well 
enough,  and  in  its  tone  there  was  a confidence  and 
tenderness  that  might  well  have  set  my  fears  at  rest. 
But  still  I was  half-afraid — of  what  ? God  knew,  per- 
haps, but  I did  not. 

You  will  wonder  that  I remember  it  all  so  keenly,  but 
I do  not  think  that  I forgot  one  word  he  ever  said  to  me. 
Even  his  letters  stay  with  me.  I burned  them  long  ago 
in  bitter  passionate  scorn,  but  I could  say  them  all  by 
heart. 

With  my  hand  in  his,  as  if  to  gain  courage,  I look 
round  the  studio  again ; it  was  large  and  picturesque. 


90  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

and  full  of  the  properties  in  which  painters  delight: 
armor  and  draperies,  old  cabinets  and  strange-shaped 
pots,  tall  palms  and  low,  roomy  bamboo  chairs.  He 
followed  my  gaze.  “ These  fripperies  are  not  mine, ” 
he  explained,  “ they  belong  to  a man  who  had  the  studio 
before  me.  He  is  abroad  now,  but  I told  him  I would 
take  charge  of  them  till  he  came  back.”  I shivered 
again  with  the  gloom  and  cold,  perhaps,  and  with  a cer- 
tain sense  of  strangeness.  “Why,  you  are  cold,”  he 
said,  “ you  are  shivering  ; wait,  we  will  soon  alter  that ; 99 
and  he  went  to  a little  ebony  elephant  on  a shelf,  and 
taking  a match  from  its  back,  set  light  to  the  wood-fire 
ready  laid  in  the  big  fireplace.  Then  he  drew  up  two 
of  the  low  chairs,  that  brought  back  with  a rush  memories 
of  your  room  at  Poona,  and  put  them  before  the  logs 
that  almost  in  a minute  were  blazing.  “ Let  us  sit  down 
and  get  warm,”  he  said;  “old  ship’s  wood  always 
burns  well  and  crackles  and  makes  blue  flame.  Don’t 
you  like  watching  it?  ” 

“Yes,”  I answered;  “I  like  to  watch  it  some- 
times— ” 

“It  makes  one  think  of  great  seas  and  storms  and 
drowning  crews  on  helpless  ships,”  he  went  on.  Then 
suddenly  he  asked,  “And  what  do  you  think  of  the 
studio?  ” 

“ It  is  lovely,  but—” 

“Then  let  us  sit  and  talk  while  the  fire  blazes — you 
are  cold  enough.” 

“ But  we  came  to  work,”  I pleaded  ; “let  us  begin 
before  the  daylight  goes.” 

“We  shall  have  lots  of  time  to  work  here,”  he  an- 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  91 

svvered;  ‘ ‘ we  can  come  every  day  if  we  like  ; sit  down 
now  and  let  us  take  quietly  our  first  hour  here  together,* ’ 
Helplessly  I did  as  he  told  me.  He  walked  up  and 
down  looking  at  the  room  and  then  at  me.  I knew 
vaguely,  as  I sat  there  with  my  hands  crossed  on  my  lap 
and  my  head  resting  against  the  great  silk  cushion  on 
the  chair  back,  that  he  was  going  to  make  love  to  me, 
and  my  heart  stood  still,  and  I was  afraid — of  what? 
Of  some  unknown  wrong  that  against  my  own  will  I 
seemed  to  be  doing.  But  I was  not  wholly  passive.  In 
a blindfold  way  I struggled  with  the  fate  that  seemed  to 
be  bearing  down  on  me. 

“ This  room  suits  you,”  he  said  ; “ it  makes  just  the 
right  background  for  your  coloring.  You  look  as  you 
did  that  night  at  Poona — in  the  garden.  Do  you  re- 
member our  quarrel,  and  how  we  made  it  up?  ” 

I was  indignant  with  him  for  reminding  me  of  it. 

“ Please  let  us  talk  of  something  else — let  us  talk 
about  the  studio  and  what  we  will  paint  here.” 

“ We  need  not  settle  that  now  ; we  can  paint  together 
all  our  lives.”  He  spoke  as  if  we  were  never  going  to 
be  apart.  Do  you  wonder  that  gradually  I let  go,  and 
forgot  all  things  but  my  love  for  him,  and  his — his  de- 
sire to  be  with  me  that  I mistook  for  love? 

“ All  our  lives  ? ” I said,  vaguely. 

“ Why,  yes,  my  child  ; so  we  can  afford  to  watch  the 
ship-wood  crackle  now.” 

But  still  I could  not  shake  off  the  feeling  that  it  was 
wrong  to  be  there,  and  somehow,  I felt  like  a prisoner. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  behind  my  chair,  he  leaned  down, 
I knew  that  he  was  softly  touching  my  hair  with  his  lips. 


92  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

That  roused  me  ; quickly  I stood  up,  and  facing  him 
took  my  courage  into  my  two  hands. 

“ Mark,”  I cried,  “let  us  go  home,  or  let  us  go  to 
the  house  and  see  Mrs.  Berry.  No  one  knows  that  I am 
here — John  does  not — here  all  alone  with  you,  and  as  it 
were  in  secret.  It  feels  wrong,  I don't  know  why,  but 
it  does."  I finished  almost  piteously,  for  the  expression 
on  his  face  sent  a chill  to  my  heart.  It  had  grown  cold 
and  hard  and  surprised.  All  my  life  was  bound  up  in 
him — I would  have  died  rather  than  make  him  angry. 
I could  have  borne  anything  better  than  his  coldness. 

“ Why  is  it  wrorfg  ? " he  asked. 

“ I don't  know,  but  I feel  that  it  is." 

“ Don't  be  silly,  dear,"  he  said,  gently.  “ How  can 
it  be  wrong  to  be  here  with  me  ? You  are  not  a child ; 
you  are  a woman,  and  we  know  what  we  are  about. 
Why  should  we  not  be  here  together  ? — two  people  who 
like  each  other." 

“ I don't  know,"  I faltered  again. 

“ Neither  do  I,"  he  answered,  and  put  his  arms  round 
me  lovingly,  but  I recoiled  almost  with  a shudder. 

“ Ah  ! you  do  not  care  for  me,"  he  said,  scornfully; 
“ if  you  did  you  would  not  shrink  from  me." 

“ Oh  ! but  if  Jack  knew — " 

“But  Jack  does  not  know,"  he  said;  “don't  be 
silly,  Madge  ; I hate  women  who  are  forever  thinking  of 
the  proprieties ; your  cautious  woman,  always  wondering 
which  is  right  and  which  is  wrong  and  doing  neither,  is 
contemptible."  He  had  not  let  go,  but  he  held  me  a 
little  way  off  and  looked  steadily  and  coldly  into  my 
face.  The  hot  tears  came  to  my  eyes  and  burned  them. 


love  letters  of  a worldly  WOMAN . 93 


“ You  are  cruel  to  me;  you  will  kill  me/ ’ I almost 
sobbed,  “ if  you  say  such  wicked  things.’ ’ 

“You  provoke  them.  You  are  not  like  the  girl  I 
knew  in  India.” 

“ I am  the  same,  Mark.  I am  the  same,”  I cried. 

“I  think  she  cared  for  me,”  he  said,  in  a low  voice  ; 
“ you  do  not  ? ” 

“ I do,”  I gasped,  “Ido.” 

“ Not  much  ? ” he  said,  curiously,  in  the  same  cold 
tone.  Looking  back,  I think  he  was  deliberately  inform- 
ing himself  of  my  feeling  towards  him — though  he 
must  have  known  it  well  before — while  he  took  care  not 
to  compromise  himself.  “ Not  much  ? ” he  repeated.  I 
clasped  my  hands  ; I could  not  endure  his  manner  any 
longer  ; a strange  despair  settled  on  my  heart ; a dread 
lest  he  should  suddenly  hate  me  unless  he  knew  the 
truth. 

“Oh,  yes,”  I said  ; “much,  much — I care  dread- 
fully,” and  then  for  a little  while  there  swept  over  me 
the  rest  and  perfect  happiness  that  follows  always,  I sup- 
pose, on  a confession  like  that.  With  those  words  said,, 
was  not  I at  his  mercy,  Nell  ? I was,  and  he  knew  it ; 
but  though  he  kissed  me  a hundred  times  he  did  not  say 
that  he  loved  me;  he  did  not  ask  me  to  marry  him. 
Yet  I was  his  friend’s  sister;  he  had  known  me  since  I 
was  a little  girl,  and  unknowingly  I had  felt  that  old  ac- 
quaintance in  itself  a safeguard,  a reason  why,  no  matter 
into  what  new  phases  of  emotion  he  might  lead  me,  he 
would  let  me  do  no  real  wrong.  Was  this  so  strange, 
dear  Nell  ? Was  I so  old  and  worldly-wise  that  I should 
know  already  that  a woman  should  forever  be  on  the  de~ 


94  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


fensive,  ever  sophisticated,  ever  holding  back  and  hiding 
what  she  feels,  though  a man  may  say  and  do  what  he 
will,  and  scarce  be  blamed  at  all.  For  man  is  strong, 
and  so  shall  go  scott-free ; but  woman  is  weak,  and  well 
shall  man  scout  and  scorn  her  if  just  for  love  of  him  she 
shows  her  weakness.  So  is  the  game  played  in  this 
strange  world  of  ours. 

We  sat  by  the  wood-fire  till  the  twilight  came,  till  the 
twilight  went  and  the  darkness  gathered ; he  with  his 
chair  close  to  mine,  my  lover  one  minute,  my  half-scorn- 
ful master  the  next.  At  last  the  fire  died  out,  the  air 
grew  chill,  and  the  striking  of  the  quaint  old  clock  in 
the  corner  vibrated  as  though  the  room  were  empty,  a? 
though  it  felt  the  stillness.  The  day  had  come  to  an 
end ; we  had  sat  beside  the  fire  all  the  hours  through  ; 
they  had  slipped  away  as  our  dreams  slip  back  when  at 
last  we  face  the  waking-time. 

“ It  is  too  late  to  see  Clara  Berry  to-day,  but  we  shall 
have  plenty  of  time  for  that,71  he  said;  and  then  we 
walked  home  in  silence,  I,  shy  and  afraid,  and  he — Ido 
not  know. 

But  there  was  nothing  to  tell  John,  no  engagement,  no 
confession ; for  it  was  not  possible  to  tell  him  that  my 
whole  heart  was  given  to  a man  who  had  not  even  said 
he  loved  me. 

That  was  but  the  beginning  of  many  days — long  days 
at  the  studio,  long  walks  to  and  fro,  and  talks  by  the  fire 
as  the  light  grew  gray  and  the  wood  burned  and  crackled 
— wood  that  had  seen  shipwreck  once,  and  now  blazed 
out  and  left  but  darkness  behind  as  I walked  through  my 
Eden  towards  the  gate  that  leads  outward.  We  were 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  95 


lovers  in  all  but  name — what  did  the  name  matter  ? He 
loved  me,  surely,  I thought ; would  he  spend  his  life 
with  me  thus ; would  he  caress  me  and  scold  me  and 
forgive  me — for  we  had  many  foolish  quarrels  and  mak- 
ings up ; would  he  make  me  so  happy  and  so  miserable, 
would  he  take  my  whole  life  into  his  hands  if  he  did  not 
love  me  ? But  he  never  once  said  it.  I thought  the 
omission  only  an  accident,  and  due  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  not  given  to  making  protestations.  I know  now 
that  it  was  cold  wisdom.  He  did  not  mind  putting 
shame  and  reproach  into  a girl's  life,  but  he  was  careful 
not  to  commit  himself. 

How  you  must  despise  me,  Nell ; and  the  story  is  not 
finished  yet.  Perhaps  even  though  you  despise  me  you 
will  love  me  a little  still.  God  grant  you  may,  dear,  and 
that  with  you  at  least  my  soul  may  walk  in  the  light  of 
day.  Madge. 

XI. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

How  glad  I shall  be  when  I have  brought  things  up 
to  date  ! It  is  so  long  since  the  days  I am  telling  you 
of,  and  relating  them  humiliates  me  more  than  I can 
bear.  Since  those  days,  too,  I have  changed.  I won 
my  spurs  in  the  world.  I know  my  power,  and  if  I 
could  only  forget  I could  be  content.  “Love  is  not 
all,”  I say  to  myself  in  these  days;  there  are  many 
things  besides — ambition,  for  instance,  and  power.  To 
help  to  make  the  wide  world’s  history,  to  see  the  be- 
ginnings of  great  movements,  the  birth  of  new  ideas, 
the  gradual  development  of  some  strange  theory  that 


96  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

shall  unhinge  doors  that  have  been  closed  for  centuries* 
and  set  them  open  wide — are  not  these  better  than  love  ? 
Love  is  for  the  individual — a short  and  fevered  happi- 
ness for  one,  at  most  for  two ; is  it  not  foolish  to  stake 
our  lives  upon  it  ? Other  things  may  effect  the  whole 
world,  but  love  is  just  for  our  own  hearts.  Be  it  what  it 
will,  love  is  for  me  no  more — it  is  forever  beyond  my 
reach,  and  so  I cultivate  fine  feelings  and  big  thoughts, 
and  try  to  find  some  satisfaction  in  them.  It  is  a trick 
known  to  many  of  us,  though  each  one,  as  he  learns  it, 
tries  to  hide  its  trickiness  and  to  pass  it  off  almost  as  a 
religion.  Nell,  I have  played  my  part  so  well  these  last 
years  that  I pass  for  a cold  and  rather  clever  woman, 
ambitious  and  severe,  wholly  above  emotional  phases. 
Lovers  come  to  me  still,  but  they  are  half  afraid  of  me  ; 
though  middle-aged  men  like  Sir  Noel  Franks  consider 
me  favorably.  I sit  alone,  sometimes,  and  laugh  in  my 
sleeve  or  cry  in  it — it  matters  little  which — when  I 
think  of  my  present  pose  and  of  the  days  that  I remem- 
ber. 

But  to  my  story.  Dear,  this  is  like  a novel  for  you. 
Each  letter  is  an  installment.  I shall  put  “to  be  con- 
tinued ” at  the  end  of  this  if  I do  not  finish  to-day. 

Well. 

At  the  end  of  the  winter,  of  which  I told  you  in  my 
last,  Janet  came  to  live  with  us.  She  was  our  dear 
mother’s  maid  years  and  years  ago,  before  we  were  con- 
fided to  Aunt  Maria’s  care  at  Daffodil ; and  being  a 
widow,  came  back  to  us  again,  and  has  been  with  us 
ever  since.  She  looks  after  everything  here,  and  is  the 
great  comfort  of  my  life.  She  has  known  us  both  ever 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  9? 


since  we  were  born,  and  is  more  like  a dear  friend  than 
a servant.  John  was  glad  to  give  her  a home.  He 
thought  she  would  take  care  of  me ; and  she  has  done 
so.  Soon  after  she  came,  John  was  asked  to  go  to  Can- 
ada for  some  months.  He  was  to  be  away  from  April 
to  October,  and  then  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  con- 
sider my  position  and  to  realize  that  at  one-and-twenty  I 
was  not  old  enough  to  live  alone  in  London  with  only 
Janet  to  look  after  me,  and  with  Mark  for  my  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend.  He  knew  I should  hate  going 
to  Daffodil,  and  did  not  venture  to  propose  it.  One 
day  he  saw  an  advertisement  of  a tiny  cottage  to  be  let 
on  the  river,  near  Cookham.  It  was  the  very  thing,  he 
declared,  when  he  came  back  from  seeing  it;  there  was 
a boat,  a summer-house,  a long  garden,  and  room 
enough  in  the  house  for  me  and  Janet,  and  one  servant 
besides. 

“ You  can  be  happy  there,  dear  Madge,"  he  added; 
“ you  will  have  your  books  to  read  and  the  garden  for  a 
studio.  " 

“ May  Mark  come  ? " I asked,  for  my  heart  was  sinking. 

“He  may  go  down  and  see  you  for  a few  hours  in 
the  course  of  the  summer/*  he  answered;  “but  he 
must  not  go  and  stay  with  you,  remember ; after  all, 
Mark  is  no  relation' ' — He  stopped  and  looked  at  me, 
and  I knew  it  was  because  my  face  was  turning  white 
with  dismay.  Even  then,  though  I did  not  know  it,  I 
felt  the  cruelty  of  Mark's  conduct  as  I stood  tongue-tied 
before  my  brother.  “ Why,  Madge,  dear,  what  is  the 
matter  ? you  are  quite  pale,  and  there  are  tears  in  your 
eyes." 


•7 


38  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


“Let  me  stay  in  town,”  I pleaded,  “I  don’t  want  to 
go  away.  It  will  be  so  lonely.” 

“ You  shall  stay  if  you  will  have  some  of  the  Daffodil 
people  with  you.”  That  was  enough.  I agreed  to  the 
cottage. 

So  John  went  to  Canada,  but  first  he  had  a long  talk 
with  Mark.  I do  not  know  what  it  was  about,  but  for 
some  time  afterwards  the  latter  was  almost  distant.  I 
was  distracted — he  did  not  love  me  any  more ; it  was 
all  over,  and  I should  break  my  heart.  I only  lived  for 
him  in  those  wild  days — he  was  all  my  world.  I think 
of  it  now  sometimes  when  I look  at  John’s  dear  face  and 
see  the  furrows  that  work  and  thought  have  left  there, 
and  hate  myself  for  my  own  selfishness. 

John  in  his  simplicity  thought  he  had  put  some  dis- 
tance between  Mark  and  me.  He  had  only  made  things 
more  easy.  Janet  and  I in  that  little  house,  with  the 
wood  in  front  and  the  river  behind,  the  old-fashioned 
garden,  the  summer-house,  the  boat  in  its  little  shelter, 
a basket-carriage  at  the  inn  close  by — is  not  the  rest 
easy  to  imagine  ? 

At  first  he  wrote  regularly  twice  a week.  I wrote  to 
him  every  day,  but  every  other  letter  I burned.  I 
longed  to  see  him,  to  ask  him  to  come,  but  dared  not, 
and  he  said  no  word.  The  hours  dragged  by  without 
him — they  were  so  empty,  so  long,  so  useless,  the  river 
was  chilly,  the  roads  were  dreary.  I could  not  work, 
for  nothing  in  the  world  was  worth  painting  ; or  read, 
for  my  thoughts  wrould  not  fasten  on  a book. 

One  afternoon  I sat  in  the  summer-house  rolled  in  a 
shawl  (it  was  cold,  uncertain  April)  listening  for  the 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  99 


postman's  step.  Twice  a day  he  came,  and  when  the 
second  letters  were  delivered  I felt  as  if  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  wait  as  best  one  could  till  the  morning. 
I used  to  watch  and  wait  for  a letter,  Nellie,  as  though 
it  fell  from  heaven,  bringing  a message  of  its  bliss,  and 
the  sight  of  one  of  the  long  envelopes  with  the  embossed 
stamp  that  Mark  always  used  sent  a thrill  of  joy  through 
me  that  was  almost  pain. 

Presently,  instead  of  the  postman’s  step  there  was 
another.  I knew  it  well  enough,  and  started  to  my 
feet.  Of  course  it  was  Mark.  He  laughed  for  joy  when 
he  saw  the  color  come  to  my  face. 

“ I have  brought  my  things,”  he  said,  “ and  am  going 
to  stay  at  the  Swan  for  a bit ; I thought  we  might  do 
some  work  together.”  I clasped  my  hands  and  could 
not  speak  for  a moment ; there  was  no  need — he  under- 
stood. 

And  then  in  the  days  that  followed  I felt  as  if  the 
whole  universe  sang  for  joy  just  because  we  were  together; 
just  because  of  my  great  happiness.  It  did  not  seem 
possible  that  the  world  could  any  longer  hold  sorrow  or 
pain.  And  the  cities  and  the  peoples — they  had  all 
vanished,  gone  to  the  earth’s  far  corners  or  on  to  heaven 
perhaps ; but  we  were  there  among  the  trees,  beside  the 
river,  free  and  alone  in  the  beautiful  world  together. 
Together — together  all  through  the  bright  spring  days, 
all  through  the  sultry  summer,  till  the  first  cold  winds  of 
autumn  came  and  swept  before  them  many  things.  I 
shiver  as  I remember  these  last.  But  the  dusky  even- 
ings, the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  the  notes  of  the  birds  hid- 
den among  them — notes  that  seemed  to  come  from  their 


100  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

soft  throats  that  were  as  full  of  joy  as  was  my  heart — the 
ripple  of  the  river,  the  yellow  of  the  marigold,  the  scent 
of  the  roses,  how  they  all  come  back  to  me  as  I sit  here 
and  write  at  the  end  of  the  story. 

We  spent  whole  days  upon  the  river,  starting  in  the 
early  morning,  taking  our  luncheon  with  us,  putting  up 
under  a tree  to  eat  it  or  landing  upon  some  little  island 
covered  with  trees  and  short,  thick  underwood.  We 
made  a picnic  of  our  own,  the  chicken  and  the  fruit  and 
the  cakes  that  Janet  had  put  up  for  us,  the  claret  and 
the  cold  black  coffee.  How  like  Eden  it  was  ! — Eden 
that  had  heard  just  enough  of  the  outside  world  to 
gather  in  its  comforts. 

After  we  had  finished  our  gay  little  meal  he  smoked, 
and  we  sat  close  together  watching  our  boat  tied  up,  and 
talked  and  dawdled  through  the  summer  hours,  making 
plans  for  the  future  or  speculating  idly  how  we  would 
have  a house-boat  here  or  a wigwam  there,  and  forever 
keep  away  from  the  haunts  of  men.  Did  it  seem  as  if 
we  should  ever  be  apart  ? 

Once,  nay,  many  times,  I said  : “ Oh,  if  Jack  only 

knew  that  you  were  here,  then  I could  be  content.  Now 
I am  afraid  of  his  being  angry;  ” but  he  always  an- 
swered impatiently : 

16  What  nonsense;  you  have  a right  to  do  as  you 
like  ; besides,  why  should  John  be  angry  ? ” Or  I tried 
to  make  our  relations  more  formal,  and  would  not  let 
him  walk  through  the  woods  with  his  arm  round  my 
waist,  but  he  only  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

“ Two  people  who  like  each  other  and  are  together, 
surely  there  is  nothing  wrong  in  this? ” he  said. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  101 

That  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a declaration  he  ever 
made  me,  and  yet  in  everything  but  words  he  was  my 
devoted  lover.  Do  you  wonder  that  I was  lulled,  that  I 
gave  up  my  whole  life  to  him  without  disguise  and 
trusted  him  absolutely?  If  the  question  had  arisen  I 
should  have  said,  “ Of  course  he  loves  me.’ 9 There  was 
no  necessity  for  words. 

Nell,  how  cruel  it  was,  for  he  knew,  though  I did  not. 
He  was  careful  and  cautious,  though  I had  thrown  all 
things  save  trust  in  him  to  the  winds.  Why  did  I love 
him  ? Why  do  I ? for  I do.  I realize  that  as  I write  to 
you,  though  I am  cold  and  wide-eyed  too,  and  can  see 
him  clearly,  his  cowardice  and  selfishness,  his  absolute 
want  of  generosity  that  would  let  him  consider  no  point 
of  view  but  his  own,  no  human  being  but  himself.  I 
understand  him  well  enough  now,  the  side  of  his  nature 
that  made  him  come  after  me,  the  fascination  that  my 
youth  was  to  him,  and  perhaps  that  only  ; I see  without 
flinching  the  whole  of  the  maddening  degradation.  He 
never  did  one  generous  thing  towards  me ; he  never  sent 
me  one  wholly  generous  letter,  for  in  every  one  there  was 
an  air  of  restraint,  of  care  not  to  commit  himself,  of 
holding  back.  He  cared  for  nothing  concerning  me, 
but  only  for  his  own  pleasure  and  fancy  for  the  moment. 
And  yet  the  fact  remains  that  I loved  him  and  glorified 
him  and  lived  only  to  him  and  for  him. 

He  was  not  wholly  kind  to  me,  even  in  that  mad  sum* 
mer  in  which  we  were  never  apart.  He  lectured  and 
scolded  and  sulked  with  me ; we  had  many  foolish  quar- 
rels, over  which  I nearly  broke  my  heart,  and  when  we 
made  them  up  it  was  all  my  doing  and  none  of  his.  If 


102  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

I had  been  in  the  right,  it  made  no  difference.  He  was 
not  capable  of  owning  when  he  was  wrong. 

I am  very  hard  upon  him,  my  dear  old  love  whom  I 
loved  more  than  my  own  soul ; but,  as  I said  before,  you 
must  measure  my  suffering  by  my  bitterness,  and  perhaps 
my  love,  too.  I have  been  beaten  by  fate  or  my  own 
folly,  which  you  will,  till  I am  so  hard  that  sometimes  I 
feel  like  a stone. 

It  was  Janet  who  first  grew  uneasy  at  the  state  of  things. 

“ Dear  Miss  Madge,”  she  said,  in  her  country  way,” 
“ and  when  is  it  that  you  and  Mr.  Mark  are  going  to 
marry?  ” 

My  heart  stood  still ; instinctively  I dreaded  being 
questioned. 

“ I don't  know,  Janet.  You  must  not  talk  of  that.” 

“ But  he's  asked  you  to  marry  him,  surely?  He's 
been  here  and  with  you  all  day  long,  weeks  in  and  weeks 
out.  He's  asked  you  to  marry,  surely  ? " 

She  looked  at  me  severely. 

“ No,  Janet.  He  hasn't  asked  me.  I don't  think  he 
wants  to  marry.” 

Janet  knew  our  mother  before  we  were  born.  She  had 
nursed  us  as  babies.  I could  not  dispute  her  right  to 
question  me. 

“ If  he  doesn't  want  to  marry  you,  Miss  Madge,  dear, 
he  oughtn’t  to  want  to  be  with  you  day  after  day.  It's 
taking  your  heart  and  maybe  your  good  name  and  life 
away.” 

“Oh  no,  Janet;  oh  no,”  I cried,  “he  likes  being 
with  me.  He  may  not  want  to  marry  yet,  but  he  likes 
being  with  me.” 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  103 


“Is  he  fond  of  you?  ” she  asked,  her  kindly  old  face 
turning  anxiously  towards  me. 

Again  I faltered,  and  I saw  vaguely  how  careful  he 
had  been. 

“ I think  so,  Janet.  He  would  not  be  always  with  me 
if  he  did  not  care.” 

“ Has  he  told  you  so?  Has  he  told  you  that  he  loves 
you,  dear  heart?  ” 

For  a minute  I looked  at  her  in  silence,  feeling  as 
though  a door  had  been  suddenly  opened  and  I had 
looked  out  at  a dark  night  and  saw  no  light  ahead,  no 
star  above,  yet  knew  that  I might  have  to  go  forth — 
whither?  But  I shook  off  my  fear,  though  my  lips 
trembled  as  I answered  : 

“ No — no,  Janet.  He  hasn’t  said  it — words  are  not 
necessary.” 

“Yes,  dearie,  they  are;  and  if  he’s  an  honest  man, 
he’ll  tell  you  that  he  loves  you,  and  if  he’s  not,  better 
let  him  go.  He  makes  love  to  you,  like  enough,  takes 
you  in  his  arms,  and  kisses  you?  ” 

I was  silent,  for  I could  not  contradict  her. 

“No  honest  man  does  that  unless  he  loves  a girl,  Miss 
Madge,”  she  added,  sternly. 

“ But  he  has  known  me  all  my  life,  Janet,”  I pleaded. 

“ All  the  more  reason  that  he  should  be  honest  towards 
you.  Make  no  mistake,  women  trust  and  men  deceive* 
Does  he  know  you  love  him,  my  dearie?”  she  asked, 
softly,  for  her  kindly  heart  ached  sorely  for  me. 

“ Yes,  Janet  ” — and  I burst  into  tears — “ he  knows 
that  I love  him,  for  I betrayed  it  long  ago  at  the  studio 
before  we  left  London.” 


104  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 

She  put  her  arms  around  me  and  drew  me  on  her  lap 
as  she  used  to  do  when  I was  a tiny  child  and  cried  be- 
cause my  mother  did  not  corpe  back  to  us. 

“ I have  loved  him  ever  since  I was  in  India,  Janet.” 

“ And  did  he  make  love  to  you  there  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  I whispered. 

“ And  kept  a guard  on  his  tongue  and  a lock  on  his 
lips  all  the  time ; never  talked  of  marriage,  never  said 
out  once  like  a man  that  he  loved  you — never  once,  my 
darling.'  ’ 

I fell  to  considering  his  words  day  after  day,  and  his 
letters,  there  had  been  scores  of  them,  but  not  one  of 
them  contained  the  words  for  which  my  whole  soul  awoke 
to  hunger. 

“ No,  Janet,  no  ; ” then  a flash  of  light  broke  on  me. 
“ But  he  has  often  said  we  will  do  this  and  we  will  do 
that ; and  only  a little  while  ago,  when  I was  afraid  we 
were  doing  wrong  in  being  together  so  much  he  said, 
* What  nonsense,  two  people  who  like  each  other/  That 
shows  he  means,  he  cares — he  is  not  one  to  make  pro- 
testations— they  are  not  like  him ; he  would  think  them 
beneath  him.” 

“ No  man  thinks  it  beneath  him  to  be  honorable, 
dearie/’ 

“ Oh,  but  he  is  honorable,”  I cried  in  despair. 

“ Don’t  see  him  any  more,  Miss  Madge/* 

“But  I must,  Janet/* 

“Don’t  let  him  be  with  you  all  day ; don’t  let  him 
make  love  to  you  till  he  can  find  a tongue  to  speak,  and 
df  he  can’t,  let  him  go.” 

“I  can’t  let  him  go,  Janet — I can’t,”  I whispered. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  105 


“ Don’t  be  cruel  to  me.  I must  trust  him — I will.  This 
is  August,  the  summer  will  soon  be  over.  Perhaps  he 
will  speak  before  we  leave  here.  He  may  think  it  isn’t 
necessary.  He  does,  I know  he  does.  He  thinks  I 
understand  without  words,  just  ordinary  word§,  they  are 
for  ordinary  people,  not  for  him.  Don’t  interfere, 
dear  Janet,  let  it  go  on  to  the  end  of  our  time  here.  Let 
me  stand  or  fall,  all  my  hope  and  happiness,  by  him.” 

“ As  many  a poor  soul  has  by  a man  before,  and  will 
in  days  to  come,”  said  Janet,  rocking  herself. 

“ If  he  fails  me  I can  die,”  I pleaded. 

“It’s  easy  to  talk  of  dying,  but  life  clings,”  poor 
Janet  answered,  brushing  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  “But 
it  is  only  a little  while  longer  that  we  have  to  stay  here 
— just  to  the  end  of  September.  Let  him  have  his 
chance ; but  hold  back,  dear ; as  woman  holds  off,  man 
follows  ; as  she  comes  forward,  he  falls  back  ; remember 
that,  Miss  Madge.” 

From  that  time  I was  awake,  and  longed,  with  a long- 
ing that  was  madness,  to  hear  him  say  that  he  loved  me. 
I tried  to  hold  back,  as  Janet  told  me,  to  be  more  dis- 
tant, more  formal,  colder ; but  how  could  I after  the 
terms  we  had  been  on  ? Besides,  in  spite  of  my  former 
engagement  to  James  Harrison,  and  my  Indian  exper- 
iences, I was  unsophisticated  still ; and  as  soon  as  I was 
out  of  earshot  again,  and  had  been  five  minutes  with 
Mark,  I trusted  him  as  much,  as  blindly,  as  absolutely 
as  ever.  If  he  were  not  worth  loving,  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  find  it  out,  and  let  the  knowledge  kill  me.  Al- 
ready I think  I divined  the  sorrow  that  was  before  me, 
if  he  had  only  been  making  me  his  plaything,  the  shame 


106  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

and  remorse  I should  suffer,  the  boundless  scorn  that, 
later  on,  when  the  pain  had  at  last  burned  out,  would 
consume  me,  and  leave  but  the  ashes  of  my  love  for  him. 

He  seemed  to  know  that  something  had  happened. 
He  was  waiting  to  take  me  on  the  river  ; we  met  by  the 
gate  ; there  was  a look  of  inquiry  on  his  face. 

“Well?”  he  said;  but  I could  not  raise  my  eyes. 
“ Has  anything  happened?  ” 

“No,”  I answered. 

We  went  down  the  wooden  steps  into  the  boat  and 
put  off  in  silence.  He  pulled  up  by  the  island,  at  which 
we  had  so  often  landed  before. 

“ Come,”  he  said.  “ We  will  rest  here  a bit.” 

I took  his  hand  and  stepped  ashore.  We  went  along 
the  narrow  pathway  that  parted  the  underwood  to  a 
grassy  patch  before  an  oak-tree. 

“Now  tell  me,”  he  said,  “for  I can  see  that  some- 
thing has  happened.  What  is  it?  ” 

“ It  is  nothing,”  I said — “nothing,  only  that  we  are 
— ” But  I stopped,  for  I could  not  repeat  what  Janet 
had  said. 

“Well?” 

“It  is  only  that  I wish  John  knew  that  you  were 
here ; that  we  meet  so  often,  that — ” But  I stopped, 
and  could  not  go  on.  I was  afraid  and  ashamed.  He 
looked  at  me  with  calm  surprise. 

“What  nonsense!”  he  said.  “We  are  not  chil- 
dren ; we  know  what  we  are  doing.  I will  make  it  all 
right  with  John,  if  it  is  necessary.”  He  got  up  as  if  he 
were  displeased.  “Come,”  he  said  coldly,  “perhaps 
we  had  better  go  back.” 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 10? 


But  for  answer  I broke  into  passionate  tears. 

“ Oh,  don’t  be  angry  ! ” I cried.  “ I cannot  bear  it.’* 
“Then  why  do  you  try  to  make  me  so?”  he  asked* 
as  if  he  were  my  master. 

“ I never  will  again.  I will  never  think  stupid  things 
any  more;  I will  trust  you  absolutely.” 

“Perhaps  you  had  better  not,”  he  answered,  cynic- 
ally. “ Who  knows  how  it  may  end?” 

I looked  at  him  in  dismay. 

“ I don’t  understand,”  I faltered.  As  if  he  repented* 
his  manner  changed. 

“Perhaps  you  are  right  in  being  afraid  of  me, 
Madge,”  he  said  gently.  “It  is  a pity  you  ever  set 
eyes  on  me.” 

“Oh  no,  no!”  I cried.  “And  afraid — I am  not 
afraid,  dear  Mark;  I am  not,  indeed.” 

As  if  to  show  that  I was  forgiven,  he  put  his  arm 
through  mine,  and  we  saunjtered  round  the  island,  and 
not  back  to  the  boat,  as  I had  feared.  Suddenly  the 
words  came  to  my  lips,  almost  without  my  knowing  it. 

“ You  have  known  me  since  I was  a little  girl,  Mark.” 
“Yes,  since  you  were  a little  girl,”  he  repeated, 
tenderly,  and,  stooping,  kissed  my  wrist ; “and  in  many 
things  she  is  a little  girl  still.” 

So  that  phase  ended.  Do  you  understand  it  all? 
Him — me  ? I would  that  I did  ; for  never  yet  has 
understanding  of  him  come  to  this  heart  of  mine  that 
was  not  mixed  with  pain  or  scorn  or  shame. 

We  went  on  just  as  we  had  before  Janet  spoke  to  me. 
His  manner  was  as  tender  as  ever,  but  he  held  himself 
well  in  hand  ; and  though  he  wrung  all  manner  of  un- 


108  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

guarded  admissions  from  me,  he  made  none  that  bound 
me  to  him. 

At  last  the  summer — that  long,  delicious  summer  that 
I look  back  upon  as  the  heaven  of  my  whole  life, 
though  I did  but  walk  through  it  to  the  hell  beyond — 
came  to  an  end.  He  flagged  towards  the  close;  his 
manner  grew  less  eager,  his  voice  more  abstracted ; he 
made  excuses  for  not  coming  so  often  to  the  cottage,  or 
for  going  long  walks  and  drives  and  pulls  on  the  river. 
Nay,  there  were  days  on  which  we  did  not  meet  at  all, 
and  when  we  did,  we  no  longer  spent  our  time  over  drift- 
less talk  or  in  sweet  silence. 

Gradually,  as  though  they  had  been  studied  before- 
hand, there  crept  into  his  talk  allusions  to  his  future  and 
mine,  as  if  he  thought  of  them  as  separate  ways — of  my 
some-day  marriage  and  of  his  travels.  Into  my  heart 
there  crept  an  awful  dread,  a questioning,  an  everlasting 
wondering  I did  not  dare  to  face. 

“Some  day,  when  I am  far  away,  and  you  and  your 
husband — ” he  began  one  day — it  was  the  last  time  we 
ever  went  on  the  river  together. 

“Why  do  you  talk  like  that?”  I cried.  “I  shall 
never  marry — never.” 

“ Ah,  that  is  what  all  women  declare  beforehand,”  he 
answered.  But  though  he  laughed,  I knew  that  he  was 
watching  me  narrowly.  It  raised  a little  terror  in  my 
heart.  Were  all  things  between  us  coming  to  an  end? 
Oh,  sooner  might  I lie  down  and  die. 

But,  day  by  day  almost,  his  manner  grew  colder,  and 
more  and  more  careful,  a little  wearied,  too,  as  though  he 
were  waiting  to  see  the  play  out,  and  would  be  glad  when 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  109 


it  was  finished.  His  words  were  fewer  and  more  distant ; 
and  slowly,  like  a nightmare,  there  crept  over  me  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  severing  his  life  from  mine — and 
it  was  so* 

In  late  September  we  were  to  go  back  to  town,  and 
Janet  made  ready.  Mark  went  a fortnight  before  we  did. 
On  his  arrival  he  wrote  me  a curt  little  note,  and  that 
was  all. 

I counted  the  hours  of  our  last  week  at  the  cottage, 
longing  to  see  John  again,  but  longing  still  more  to  see 
Mark — to  be  near  him,  to  know  that  at  any  hour  he 
might  come  if  he  would  and  that  at  any  moment,  with 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  all  the  misery  that  possessed  me 
might  be  swept  away.  I sometimes  think  that  my  feel- 
ing for  him  was  a madness — that  he  had  made  it  one. 
Oh,  the  carefulness  of  that  man  not  to  commit  himself ; 
the  calm  way  in  which  he  deliberately  took  my  life  into 
his  hands,  amused  himself  with  it,  nursed  it  and 
moulded  it,  and  then,  when  he  was  tired  of  it,  threw  it  on 
one  side  with  impatience  and  forgetfulness. 

The  last  day  of  all  at  the  cottage  came,  and  while 
Janet  finished  packing  I went  on  the  river  once  more — . 
to  the  Island  where  he  and  I had  spent  so  many  hours 
together.  I did  not  tell  Janet  I was  going  there,  for  her 
quiet  scorn  of  him  was  more  than  I could  bear.  It  was 
strange  enough  to  go  alone.  I got  out  of  the  boat,  and, 
having  made  it  fast,  looked  behind  me  stealthily,  and 
trod  softly,  as  though  I were  doing  some  strange  forbid- 
den thing,  or  treading  a graveyard,  and  feared  to  awaken 
the  sleepers.  I went  towards  the  tree  beneath  which  we 
had  rested  so  often.  I sat  down  and  covered  my  face 


216  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

with  my  hands,  and  gave  myself  up  to  the  misery  that 
possessed  me.  I thought  over  all  the  days  we  had  spent 
together,  all  that  he  had  said,  all  that  we  had  done  from 
that  first  hour  in  the  sunshine  at  Bombay  to  the  last,  a 
fortnight  ago,  when  he  had  wished  me  good-bye  at  the 
cottage  with,  “ Well,  I must  be  off ; we  shall  meet  in 
town,  I suppose?  ” His  manner  had  said  clearly, 
V This  is  the  beginning  of  a new  order  of  things,  re- 
member, for  the  old  one  is  ended.”  He  had  stooped 

and  kissed  my  cheek,  and  was  gone I raised  my 

face  ; all  was  still,  no  sound  of  a boat  going  by,  no  note 
of  a bird  overhead  to  disturb  the  silence,  only  the  leaves 
falling — poor  leaves,  that  had  hung  so  fresh  and  high, 
and  now  fell  low,  sere  and  yellow — with  a whisper  that 
I seemed  to  understand  : “ The  day  is  over,  the  sum- 

mer is  gone,  and  you  are  alone,  as  all  human  beings  are 
alone  sooner  or  later.  It  is  a part  of  life,  so  great  a part 
that  it  is  nearly  the  whole  ; only  some  are  alone  in  the 
silence  and  some  in  the  midst  of  many  who  go  past  them, 
but  never  take  account.” 

I put  my  hands  over  my  eyes  again,  I stopped  my  ears, 
and  rocked  to  and  fro,  and  wondered  when  I should 
die.  Oh,  what  girlhood  suffers,  Nell ! Yet  how  few  who 
are  near  understand,  and  how  some  scoff,  and  most  for- 
get ! At  last,  in  sheer  despair,  I got  up,  almost  ran  to 
the  boat,  and  rowed  back  with  the  strength  of  despair — 
youth's  despair — in  my  arms.  I would  never  see  the  cot- 
tage again,  I would  never  see  the  island  again 

Janet  was  ready ; the  luggage  had  gone  to  the  station. 
We  got  into  a fly  and  slowly  followed.  It  was  all  over ; 
the  summer  was  finished. 


love  letters  of  a worldly  woman, ; 111 


Mark  came  to  see  us  soon  after  we  were  back  in  the 
town,  but  he  was  changed  altogether.  In  some  sort  of 
way  he  made  an  apology  for  the  past.  “I  think  we 
were  very  foolish  to  go  on  as  we  did  all  the  summer,”  he 
said,  “ and  last  winter  at  the  studio.  Jack  and  I had  a 
talk  before  he  went  abroad,  and  I ought  to  have  remem- 
bered it;  but,  after  all,  you  are  not  a child.”  What 
could  I say,  and  what  could  I do?  If  I had  refused  to 
let  him  come  to  the  house,  or  had  quarreled  with  him, 
what  could  I have  said  to  Jack?  Besides  on  what  ex- 
cuse could  I have  quarreled  with  him  that  would  not 
have  left  me  shamefaced  ? Above  all,  too,  I loved  him, 
even  yet,  a thousand  times  too  much  to  risk  seeing  him 
no  more.  So,  silent  and  miserable,  I let  things  drift  as 
they  pleased. 

We  never  went  back  to  the  old  footing — never.  He 
came  to  see  us  once  a week ; but  his  manner  grew  cold 
apd  formal,  critical  and  fault-finding.  I have  learned  to 
know  that  the  first  sign  of  love's  waning  is  when  it  takes 
to  being  critical.  Love  ? The  pity  ot  it  is  that  I can 
never  be  sure  that  Mark  had  ever  any  love  at  all  for  me, 
or  I could  forgive  him  everything. 

That  winter  his  views  of  life  seemed  to  change,  his 
plans  to  alter  entirely.  Without  telling  me  so  in  actual 
words,  he  was  always  trying  to  convey  this  to  me,  and  I 
felt  as  helpless  to  swim  against  the  strange  tide  that  was 
setting  in  as  to  swim  with  it.  For,  if  he  could  change 
so  suddenly,  I could  *not.  If  all  the  summer  and  the 
winter  before  he  had  been  dishonest,  I had  been  honest 
enough,  and  what  I appeared  to  feel  that  I had  felt  and 
not  pretended.  But  what  he  felt  and  intended  now  was 


112  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


suddenly  thrust  upon  me.  We  had  often  talked  of  some 
day  painting  a picture  together.  It  had  been  his  idea, 
not  mine.  He  was  to  paint  the  figures,  and  I the  back- 
ground. We  were  to  begin  it  when  we  were  back  in 
town.  I alluded  to  it  in  one  of  my  letters.  His  reply 
was:  “We  must  paint  our  great  picture  later  on  in 

life,  for  I have  too  much  to  do  to  think  of  it  yet.  We 
are  both  sure  to  marry,  and  if  some  day  I like  your  hus- 
band and  you  like  my  wife,  we  can  then  astonish  the 
world  with  our  united  efforts.’ ’ Was  not  that  sufficient  ? 
Yet,  in  after  days,  he  had  the  meanness  to  taunt  me  with 
being  false  to  him — to  him  who  never  once  was  true  to 
me  or  said  a word  to  bind  me. 

Gradually  his  visits  ceased,  but  we  often  wrote  to  each 
other.  A correspondence  had  somehow  been  established 
between  us,  though  his  letters  were  never  those  of  a 
lover.  Yet  he  assumed  an  authority  in  my  life  that, 
against  my  will,  had  a certain  sweetness,  and  I submit- 
ted and  referred  all  things  to  him,  and  thought  him 
manly  when  he  bullied  me,  and  found  an  odd  delight 
even  in  being  browbeaten — nay,  I liked  him  for  his  very 
tyranny,  his  anger  and  cruelty.  We  had  a long  quarrel 
once,  and  he  wrote  me  letters  full  of  jibes  and  taunts 
and  fault-finding ; and  when  at  last  he  stirred  the  devil 
that,  after  all,  is  chained  near  most  passionate  women’s 
hearts,  and  I gave  him  back  the  bitterness  he  sent  me,  he 
refused  to  open  any  more  letters,  yet  sent  me  a volley  of 
insults.  Manly,  was  it  not,  Nellie,  to  bully  from  a safe 
corner  a woman  whose  love  he  had  won,  and  whose  life 
he  had  filled  with  shame  and  humiliation? 

We  made  up  that  quarrel.  But  he  took  some  vast 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  113 


credit  to  himself  for  forgiving  me,  and  in  the  letter  in 
which  he  did  so  told  me  that  living  alone  so  much 
spoiled  me,  he  wished  he  could  see  me  4 ‘married  to 
some  one  who  would  be  as  fond  of  you  and  as  proud  of 
you  as  he  ought  to  be.”  A noble  sentiment,  truly 
worthy  of  him  who  uttered  it. 

Nell,  I can  write  no  more  to-night,  but  in  a day  or 
two  I will  go  on. 

XII. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

To  go  on.  John  came  back  early  in  November.  He 
asked  if  I had  seen  much  of  Mark. 

I answered  simply,  “ Yes,  he  came  and  stayed  at  the 
inn  near  the  cottage.” 

They  met  that  evening,  and  perhaps  something  passed 
between  them,  for  they  were  never  again  very  intimate, 
and  Mark’s  visits  ceased  from  that  time.  He  only  came 
to  our  house  once  afterwards,  to  say  good-bye  before  he 
went  abroad  for  some  months  to  the  Cape,  as  artist  for 
his  paper — a formal  visit  during  which  my  heart  stood 
still.  I never  asked  John  for  an  explanation ; I could 
not.  Then  followed  a weary  time  enough ; John  was  at 
work  all  day,  and  occupied  or  out  most  evenings  : the 
winter  months  went  by — a long,  dark  winter  of  misery 
and  shame  and  remorse  to  me.  I want  to  hurry  over  it; 
it  shakes  me  even  now  to  remember.  . . . 

Nellie,  dear,  there  are  some  things  we  do  of  which  we 
can  give  no  account;  and  there  is  one  that  I did  of 
which  I want  to  tell  you.  In  the  wild  manner  in  which 
girls  overdo  things  I vowed  that  if  in  the  whirl  and 
8 


114  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


twirl  of  time  Fate  should  ever  give  me  Mark’s  love,  that 
love  for  which  I had  hungered  so,  and  if  by  some 
strange  twist  he  should  ask  me  to  be  his  wife,  I would 
refuse  him ; for  what  woman  with  any  pride  at  all  would 
marry  a man  who  had  heaped  upon  her  the  insults  that 
he  had  heaped  on  me?  Injuries,  nay,  blows,  I could 
have  forgiven,  but  not  that  which  he  had  done  to  me.  I 
am  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  I strengthened  my  vow,  but 
one  day  I walked  alone — a cold,  dreary  day — to  Kensal 
Green,  and  knelt  down  beside  my  mother’s  grave,  and 
sobbed  till  I thought  my  heart  would  break ; and  as  I 
crouched  down,  kissing  the  earth  that  was  her  covering, 
I swore  as  I loved  her,  and  as  I knew  in  her  life  and  in 
her  dying  hour  she  had  loved  her  children,  that  I would 
never  more  be  anything  in  the  world  to  Mark,  cost  me 
what  it  might.  “ Never,  never,  mother,  dear,  I swear 
to  you,”  I cried,  and  put  my  face  down  on  the  icy  grass, 
and  felt  as  though  a strange  thrill  of  comfort  and  sym- 
pathy came  to  me  from  her  still  heart  beneath.  Then  I 
walked  back  calmly  and  with  a feeling  of  security  I had 
not  known  for  months. 

Sometimes,  nay,  often,  I have  thought  that  all  Mark’s 
conduct  was  because  he  mistook  me.  It  made  my  heart 
stand  still  when  the  idea  first  occurred  to  me — it  seemed 
too  dreadful  to  be  possible — and  yet  again  and  again  it 
has  come  back  to  me — as  the  solution  of  the  past — it  is 
that  he  thought  me  fast  and  bad.  Honest  men  do  not 
make  love  to  women  as  he  made  love  to  me,  and  to 
women  they  have  known  all  their  lives,  unless  they  think 
them — ; but  it  makes  my  face  burn  with  shame ; I can- 
not write  it ; and  even  then  it  is  despicable  enough,  and 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  115 


does  but  save  them  from  the  last  depth  of  utter  scoun- 
drelism.  But  if  he  did  not  think — that , could  he  have 
treated  me  as  he  did?  Could  he,  too,  after  the  terms 
we  had  been  on,  have  spoken  of  the  possibility  of  our 
some  day  doing  work  together  and  being  friends,  “ if  he 
liked  my  husband  and  I liked  his  wife.”  Maddening  as 
the  thought  is,  Nell,  there  is  yet  some  grain  of  secret 
comfort  in  it,  for  my  baseness  would  have  weakened  his, 
have  accounted  for  his  conduct,  and  I loved  him  so — I 
do  still — that  I believe  I could  send  my  soul  down  any 
depth,  if  by  doing  so  I could  raise  his. 

It  was  in  the  spring  that  followed  on  that  winter,  and 
while  Mark  was  still  abroad,  that  John  became  almost 
suddenly  famous.  His  professional  work  prospered 
amazingly,  and  all  things  went  well  with  him,  as  they 
have  done  ever  since.  We  grew  richer,  and  went  out 
more,  entertained  at  home,  and  had  more  in  all  ways  to 
fill  our  lives.  Everybody  liked  John  ; he  made  endless 
friends — he  is  so  simple  and  clever,  so  unassuming,  and 
yet  so  perfect  in  his  manner  that  it  is  easy  to  understand 
his  fascination  for  the  world,  the  ease  with  which  people 
loved  him,  and  the  eagerness  with  which  they  ran  after 
him  when  they  once  came  to  know  him.  The  result  was 
that  he  was  more  and  more  from  home,  unless  he  stayed 
to  help  me  receive  friends  (and  that  was  not  very  often)  ; 
he  joined  societies,  spoke  at  meetings,  and  was  on  com- 
mittees, for  John  has  always  held  that  a man  should  play 
as  busy  a part  in  the  world  as  it  will  let  him.  These 
things  drew  us  further  apart,  not  at  heart,  but  as  regarded 
the  close  intimacy  of  daily  life. 

All  this  time,  and  for  months  past,  Austin  Brian  had 


116  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

been  in  love  with  me.  Why,  Heaven  only  knows,  for  I 
had  eyes  and  ears  for  no  man — all  human  beings  were 
the  same  to  me  : I used  to  feel  like  an  automaton.  He 
was  quiet  and  manly  and  clever.  I have  often  thought 
that,  had  I never  seen  Mark,  I could  have  loved  Austin, 
have  married  him  ; but  as  it  was  he  was  a shadow  to  me, 
a nothing — he  took  no  hold  on  me  at  all.  The  mo* 
ment  he  was  out  of  my  sight  I forgot  him  altogether ; 
when  he  was  in  it  I only  took  the  faintest  interest  in  him 
— the  interest  that  comes  of  forcing  one’s  self  to  get  out- 
side the  prison  into  which  one’s  heart  can  put  one — a 
solitary,  miserable  cell  enough  in  which  one  broods  and 
hates  one’s  life,  and  beats  against  its  bars,  and  suffers  a 
thousand  times  more  than  if  stone  walls  had  shut  one  in. 
One  day — it  seemed  so  odd  I could  have  laughed,  but 
that  mentally  I only  looked  at  it  in  the  dazed  way 
in  which  I looked  at  all  things — Austin  Brain  proposed 
to  me.  I refused  him,  of  course,  and  the  incident  took 
no  hold  on  me.  He  did  not  avoid  me  afterwards  or 
cease  coming  to  the  house.  At  another  time  this  might 
have  piqued  me,  though  he  had  asked  that  we  might  re- 
main friends;  but  now  I did  not  care,  and  scarcely 
noticed  it.  That  he  loved  me  still  I saw  plainly  enough 
in  the  hazy  way  I saw  everything,  but  concern  of  mine 
it  was  none.  I remember  we  danced  together  a good 
deal  one  night — it  was  at  the  Woolwich  ball ; we  drove 
down  to  it  with  the  Callows,  who  had  made  up  a party 
to  go  (they  had  relatives  quartered  at  Woolwich,  and 
were  always  going  to  and  fro),  and  at  the  end  he  said  to 
me,  “ I shall  never  forget  to-night.”  I looked  up  at  him 
in  wonder.  What  was  there  to  remember  ? 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  117 

One  day  a sort  of  crisis  came — it  was  in  the  late  sum- 
mer, just  before  we  left  town.  The  morning  brought  a 
note  from  Mark.  He  was  coming  to  England  for  a 
week,  but  should  only  stay  a couple  of  days  in  London, 
“ so  there  would  be  no  time  to  look  in,  but  he  hoped  I 
was  all  right;  he  had  been  reading  John’s  article,”  etc. 
Was  not  this  enough?  A year  before  we  had  been 
lovers ; he  had  not  seemed  able  to  bear  a single  day 
away  from  me ; now,  after  months  of  absence,  he  could 
not  manage  to  come  for  even  an  hour.  ...  I want  to 
put  it  all  shortly.  It  tries  me  sorely  to  live  over  all 
those  past  days  again.  ...  I did  not  answer  Mark’s 
letter ; it  was  impossible.  I did  not  mention  it  to  John, 
for  my  lips  felt  as  if  they  could  not  say  his  name.  But 
I shed  bitter  tears  over  his  note.  I remember  that  in 
these  calm  days,  and  wonder  at  my  passion  then,  for  I 
covered  the  half  sheet  of  paper  with  wild  kisses  and 
loved  him — clinched  it  in  my  hands  and  loathed  him. 

That  evening  John  did  not  come  home  to  dinner,  but 
sent  me  a note  saying  he  would  be  back  by  nine  at 
latest.  It  was  late  July,  and  most  people  had  left  town. 
I could  eat  nothing,  but  went  out  in  the  twilight,  feeling 
I could  not  stay  in  the  house.  I walked  quickly  away 
from  Bolton  Row,  on  and  on,  till  somehow  I was  near 
the  Regent’s  Park.  Perhaps  it  was  thinking  of  the 
Berrys  that  insensibly  sent  my  feet  towards  them.  When 
I realized  where  I was,  I turned  and  almost  fled  in 
another  direction.  At  last  I was  near  Clarence  Gate, 
and  then  by  Cornwall  Terrace,  all  the  time  feeling  half 
dazed  and  as  if  a whirlwind  were  before  and  behind, 
and  I walked  between.  Suddenly  some  one  passing  by 


118  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

started  and  stopped.  It  was  Austin  Brian  ; he  looked  at 
me  bewildered. 

“ I have  a headache,”  I explained,  “ and  John  is  not 
coming  home  till  nine.  I wanted  to  walk  about  alone  ; 
perhaps  it  is  an  unusual  thing  to  do,  but  it  does  not 
matter;  Janet  could  not  come  with  me.”  Probably  my 
voice  or  manner  betrayed  that  I was  miserable,  I do  not 
know,  but  he  seemed  to  divine  it,  though  he  said  noth- 
ing, only  turned  round  as  if  to  take  me  back.  Just  to 
take  refuge  from  my  wretched,  miserable  self,  I let  him 
walk  beside  me..  He  had  infinite  tact  and  human  feel- 
ing. . . . Oh,  if  years  before  I had  but  seen  him  instead 
of  Mark.  We  went  on  together  into  the  park,  for  I said 
that  I wanted  to  be  near  the  trees,  and  not  to  go  back  to 
the  four  walls  of  the  drawing-room  in  Bolton  Row.  We 
talked  of  books,  of  scenery,  of  the  sky  that  had  still 
some  fading  crimson  in  it  from  the  sunset  that  was  over, 
and  every  minute  became  grayer  with  the  coming  night. 
Suddenly  I felt  something  at  my  throat;  a strange 
blinding  came  before  my  eyes ; I knew  that  my  face 
was  white,  my  lips  trembling  ; I looked  away  into  the 
distance,  longing  to  vanish  into  it  forever,  evermore; 
life  only  made  me  ache  with  memories,  filled  me  with 
dread  of  the  years  that  seemed  to  stretch  out  before  me, 
a vista  of  waiting  and  tiredness  I had  not  strength  or 
courage  to  face.  For  a moment  I thought  my  senses 
were  going.  He  looked  at  me  in  wonder  and  alarm, 
for  I had  stopped,  feeling  as  if  I could  not  go  on. 

“ I am  so  tired,”  I gasped;  “ I think  I shall  die.” 
The  words  came  piteously — it  was  only  by  a violent 
effort  that  I kept  back  the  hopeless  tears  that  struggled 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  119 


to  come  into  my  eyes.  As  if  he  understood,  he  drew 
my  hand  onto  his  arm  with  a tenderness  like  that  of  a 
mother's  to  a worn-out  child ; he  looked  down  at  me 
and  almost  supported  me. 

“ You  are  very  tired  ; I can  see  that,”  he  said,  gently  ; 
“ and  sad,  too.  I wish  you  would  tell  me — that  I can 
help  you  ; I would  give  my  life  to  be  of  the  very  least 
service  to  you.”  There  was  no  passion  in  the  voice* 
only  a depth,  an  affection  that  carried  just  for  one  lone 
moment  an  infinite  rest  into  my  soul.  He  was  so  strong* 
too,  with  the  manly  strength  that  is  born  of  many  things, 
but  most,  perhaps,  of  gentleness;  and  the  men  who 
possess  this  are  our  unconscious  masters  for  good,  just  as 
perhaps  the  men  of  Mark's  type  are  our  masters  for  evil. 
A few  minutes  later  he  had  called  a hansom  and  was 
driving  me  back.  I thought  of  that  first  drive  to  the 
studio  with  Mark,  the  man  I had  loved  so  well,  and  of 
this  with  the  man  whom  I knew  loved  me.  He  was  go- 
ing to  leave  me  at  the  door,  but  a sort  of  desperation 
came  over  me.  John  was  probably  at  home,  or  would 
be  immediately,  but  he  would  be  busy,  and  I should  be 
left  again  to  brood  over  my  own  imaginings. 

“ Come  in,”  I said  ; “ John  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
We  have  tea  at  half-past  nine;  come  and  have  a cup.” 
He  entered  gladly ; perhaps  he  thought  it  encourage- 
ment. John  had  not  returned ; he  did  not  come  for  a 
long  time.  In  half  an  hour  Austin  Brian  was  pleading 
his  cause  again  in  this  little  drawing-room  where  you  and 
I met  again  the  other  day  after  the  long  years  of  absence. 
He  was  good,  Nell,  and  he  loved  me ; he  wanted  to  take 
care  of  me,  to  give  me  a bright  and  happy  life;  he 


120  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


seemed  to  understand  how  lonely  I was,  to  know  all  the 
longings  that  were  mine  years  ago — of  anything  but  the 
best  in  one  he  had  no  comprehension.  And  he  was  not 
afraid  or  ashajmed  to  speak  as  was  the  other  man,  on 
whom  I had  wasted  my  life’s  love.  I knew  that  with 
him  I should  have  rest  and  security,  that  the  better  side 
of  me  would  live  and  the  bad  shrink  ashamed  away. 
Above  all,  I felt  how  truly  he  loved  me.  I was  very 
grateful  to  him,  and  I saw  that  it  was  in  my  power  to  do 
some  good,  to  make  some  one  happy — I,  to  whom  hap- 
piness was  forever  denied,  might  do  this. 

“ I never  loved  any  woman  but  you,”  he  said,  simply ; 
4t  I never  shall.”  I cannot  tell  you  how  it  all  came 
about,  but  somehow  I promised  to  marry  him,  told  him 
I would  try  to  love  him,  to  be  happy,  and  let  him  kiss 
me  just  once,  thinking  the  while  with  a shuddering 
shame,  though  my  heart  still  quickened  with  love  as  well 
as  with  scorn  of  him,  of  Mark’s  first  kiss  in  the  garden 
at  Poona.  Then  John  came  home,  and  Austin  went  up 
and  told  him  straight,  brimming  over  with  joy  while  he 
spoke  and  not  striving  to  hide  it,  and  in  a flash  it  seemed 
I was  engaged  and  all  my  future  arranged.  For  the  first 
few  hours  I was  too  dazed  to  comprehend  altogether  what 
I had  done,  to  feel  keenly  anything  save  a sense  of 
serenity,  of  rest,  of  almost  strained  thankfulness ; but  a 
day  later  and  I was  repenting  wildly,  feeling  like  a 
prisoner,  like  one  who  had  shut  the  door  on  all  possi- 
bilities. And  there  was  nothing  to  be  done ; I was  no 
longer  a mere  girl ; it  was  my  own  deed — I was  wretched 
— nearly  mad.  Suddenly  it  struck  me  that  Mark  would 
understand  the  agony  and  shame  I had  gone  through  if 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  121 


I told  him  all,  and  that  perhaps,  if  only  for  fear  of  any 
words  in  this  world  being  forever  too  late  would  speak 
up  at  last  and  set  things  right  to  my  heart,  though  it  was 
forever  too  late  to  set  them  right  outwardly.  He  would 
surely  counsel  me,  I thought — would  be  gentle  to  me 
this  once.  Had  we  not  spent  long  days  and  weeks  to- 
gether, content  to  be  the  boundaries  of  each  other's 
world?  Oh,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  though  never  his 
lips  had  said  it,  he  must  have  had  some  love,  some  care 
for  me  ; and  if  but  for  a single  moment  I might  know  it,  I 
could  walk  in  silence  and  calmness  forever  after,  though 
I never  set  eyes  on  his  dear  face  again.  Besides,  I had 
had  no  secrets  from  him  for  so  long,  had  lived  no  life 
that  he  had  not  governed,  I could  not  bear  by  my  own 
doing  to  know  that  our  lives  were  forever  separated.  So 
I wrote  and  told  him  that  I was  engaged ; that  I had 
somehow  let  it  come  about,  and  that  though  I saw 
how  good  and  true  Austin  was,  I was  not  in  love  with 
him,  and  chafed  and  wanted  to  be  free  again. 

He  replied  quickly  enough,  saying  how  glad  he  was ; 
he  had  wanted  to  see  me  married ; he  did  not  under- 
stand my  not  being  satisfied ; soon  I would  wonder  at 
my  own  impatience,  and  so  on.  How  that  letter  fretted 
me,  how  like  my  own  funeral  sermon  it  seemed ; I put 
it  away  for  a while,  then  I burned  it,  holding  it  down 
with  the  poker  while  it  blazed,  lest,  like  a fiend,  it 
should  rise,  and  its  words  madden  me  again.  Then  I 
gave  myself  up  to  the  martyrdom  of  my  engagement — 
an  odd,  exaggerated  word  to  use.  But  it  was  nothing 
less,  and  all  the  more  a martyrdom  because  I felt  that 
had  I never  seen  Mark  I could  have  been  content — have 


122  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN, 1 

loved  and  married  Austin,  that  he  would  have  satisfied 
all  the  higher  feelings  in  my  nature — the  eager  search- 
ing for  ideals,  the  striving  after  better  things  than  those 
within  my  immediate  reach.  But,  as  it  was,  it  could 
not  be ; nothing  could  be  save  my  despair.  I realized 
that  I was  a woman  with  a past,  that  in  my  heart  there 
were  memories  of  days  and  hours  and  meetings  of  which 
I could  never  tell  a husband  through  all  the  years  of  a 
life  that  we  might  spend  together,  that  forever  I should 
be  a deception  to  him.  How  could  I tell  him  of  all  that 
had  been,  shared  as  it  was  with  a man  who  never  once 
had  said  he  loved  me  ? If  Mark  had  only  spared  me 
that.  I have  so  often  thought  that  he  should  have  lied 
to  me,  have  pretended  that  he  loved  me,  that  he  would 
have  done  so  had  he  not  taken  me  for  all  that  I dread  to 
think.  He  would  not  surely  have  put  into  the  life  of  a 
woman  he  thought  good  and  pure  all  the  shame  that  he 
put  into  mine?  Mind  this,  dear  Nell,  that  had  I done 
all  that  I did  for  a man  I loved  and  who  had  loved  me, 
I should  have  thought  little  of  the  shame ; but  to  have 
done  it  for  a man  who  did  not  even  think  me  worth  a 
pretense  of  love — oh,  bitter  pain  indeed,  bitter  pain  that 
made  my  very  soul  rock  with  misery,  and  memories  that 
stupefied  me. 

And  yet,  with  the  sight  of  Austin’s  face,  with  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  there  came  ever  a sense  of  peace,  of 
rest  and  thankfulness,  a view  of  life,  a dream,  a vista 
that  made  my  heart  yearn — but  that  I knew  had  come 
too  late.  It  was  like  a sight  of  heavenly  stillness  to  the 
worn  and  passionate  soul  that,  stretching  out  to  reach 
earthly  bliss,  had  slipped  down,  down  into  the  torments 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  12$ 


below.  And  day  by  day  he  loved  me  more,  and  for- 
ever he  would  say,  and  seemed  to  delight  in  saying, 
how  good  and  pure  and  sweet  I was ; he  believed  in  me 
as  though  I had  been  a saint,  an  ideal  of  all  that  was 
best  in  womanhood.  It  was  for  my  sore  punishment 
that  it  should  be  so,  perhaps  ....  I could  not  go  on 
bearing  it,  Nell ; I could  not.  One  night,  after  he  had 
protested  his  love  for  me,  looking  into  my  face  as  only 
one’s  lover  does,  suddenly  I spoke.  I begged  him  to  set 
me  free.  I told  him  that  I was  bad  and  wicked,  and 
could  not  put  into  words  all  that  was  in  my  heart,  or 
tell  him  of  by-gones  that  I remembered ; but  that  I 
could  not  marry  him — I was  not  fit  to  do  so ; that  I was 
worn  and  hard  and  cold  towards  all  people  save  one, 
and  from  even  him  I recoiled.  “ I want  to  be  free  and 
alone, ” I cried;  “ forever  alone’ ’ and  I clasped  my 
hands  and  implored  him  to  let  me  go. 

I cannot  tell  you  more.  He  went  to  Egypt.  A year 
later  he  was  killed  in  some  accidental  skirmish.  The 
news  of  his  death  fell  on  my  ear  like  the  sound  of  a 
death  bell  to  a murderer  ....  Oh  God,  what  a life  it 
has  been,  this  inner  life  of  mine,  of  which  no  one  knows 
or  suspects  ! Yes,  my  life,  Madge  Brooke’s,  who  is 
supposed  to  be  cold  and  worldly,  to  have  made  many 
conquests,  and  to  care  only  for  them  and  for  so- 
ciety .... 

I told  Mark  it  was  broken  off.  He  wrote  and  re- 
gretted it;  he  felt  sure  that  “it  would  have  been  better 
to  have  married  a good  fellow  really  fond  of  me.”  The 
way  in  which  he  spoke  of  any  one  being  fond  of  me  was 
cynical,  as  though  he  half  doubted  the  possibility. 


324  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 

I have  so  often  wished  that  I could  kill  him,  that  I 
could  see  him  lying  stark  and  dead,  and  know  that  I 
had  done  it ; I would  put  my  face  against  his  till  its  icy 
coldness  sent  a shudder  through  me  and  then  for  all 
eternity  suffer  torments,  burn  and  burn  till  my  heart  and 
soul,  that  felt  so  black  and  wicked,  were  white,  white 
ashes. 

I used  to  see  Austin's  dead  face  at  one  time,  no  mat- 
ter where  I turned  or  what  I did  ; but  now  it  has  gone, 
passed  on  with  the  shadows  into  far  eternity ; and  still 
—oh,  Nellie,  for  my  sad  curse — I sometimes  love  that 
man  whose  cowardice  has  ruined  me,  body  and  soul.  I 
saw  him  once  after  Austin's  death ; that  was  the  last 
time  I saw  him  at  all.  I called  at  the  Berrys’  one  day. 
Some  fascination  makes  me  go  there  every  now  and 
then ; they,  knowing  nothing,  think  it  is  mere  passing 
civility  to  themselves.  He  was  there,  and  when  I came 
away  he  came  too,  and  walked  home  with  me.  I was 
cold  and  silent — it  piqued  him,  I suppose,  for  he  grew 
almost  tender,  and  talked  of  old  days,  till  I thought  my 
heart  would  burst ; but  I kept  my  lips  shut.  Then  sud- 
denly he  turned  and  reproached  me  in  roundabout  ways 
— he  never  in  his  life  spoke  up  like  a man,  for  good  or 
evil — for  having  been  false  to  him.  He  had  not  gone 
off,  he  said,  and  got  engaged  to  some  one  else ; he  had 
not  forgotten  so  soon.  Could  he  fall  lower  than  that — 
be  more  contemptible  ? I could  not  answer  him,  but  I 
looked  up  and  felt  the  tears  come  into  my  eyes.  He 
has  been  all  my  life,  and  I have  loved  him  as  few 
women  love  in  these  cold-hearted  days.  Even  that 
afternoon,  as  I walked  beside  him  from  the  Berrys',  I 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  125 


could  have  respected  him  again,  loved  him  again,  if  he 
had  but  once  said  out  that  he  loved  me,  or  had  loved 
me ; or  that  he  had  not  loved  me  and  begged  my  for- 
giveness for  his  treachery ; but  no,  honesty  and  manli- 
ness with  him  do  not  include  truthfulness  and  courage 
towards  women.  I think  that  accusation  of  being  false 
to  him  was  a revelation  of  all  things.  Then  I under- 
stood him,  and  shall  forevermore — or,  at  least,  I think 
so.  False?  Why,  if  I had  worshiped  Austin  Brian, 
and  had  married  him  and  lived  with  him  all  my  days, 
and  the  world  had  quoted  me  as  a devoted  wife,  I 
should  still  have  been  no  more  false  than  is  the  girl  who, 
when  all  earthly  happiness  is  at  an  end,  and  human 
hopes  have  passed  her  by,  takes  her  miserable  heart  to 
a convent,  and  throws  herself  at  her  Saviour’s  feet  with 
an  adoration  that  is  half  despair. 

This  is  my  story,  dear.  It  ended  three  years  ago ; 
but  a few  days  since  I heard  that  Mark,  who  has  been 
roaming  about,  was  coming  back  to  England  again  for 
good.  I long,  yet  dread,  to  meet  him,  though  I see 
clearly  enough  now,  and  understand  him.  Do  not  hate 
me  because  you  know  me  through  and  through. 

Next  time  I shall  tell  you  of  frivolities,  and  forget 
that  the  world  holds  anything  beneath  the  surface  on 
which  the  sun  shines.  Oh,  the  mistake,  the  sorrow,  the 
tragedy  of  human  feeling  ! Thank  Heaven  that  I have 
done  with  it ! 


Madge. 


126  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

XIII. 

MADGE  TO  NELLIE. 

March  6 , 1884. 

It  is  a month  since  I wrote  to  you  last,  those  night- 
mare letters.  I am  better  now ; for  the  past  is  only  a 
.grave  on  which  in  this  present  time  I stamp  my  angry 
feet.  Fate  has,  after  all,  not  been  so  very  cruel,  and  I 
am  thankful,  behind  all  my  other  feelings,  that  Mark’s 
path  and  mine  lie  apart.  He  is  well  enough  or  ill 
enough  to  have  loved,  to  have  made  into  a romance ; 
but  had  we  married,  how  I should  have  hated  him  by 
this  time,  save  in  those  wild  moments  when  I was  blind 
to  all  that  was  best  on  earth. 

I sometimes  think  that,  without  meaning  or  knowing 
it,  the  Berrys  helped  to  separate  us.  They  have  differ- 
ent ideas  from  his  and  mine  on  all  things,  and  they  are 
primly  evangelical.  They  are  a little  cynically  inclined, 
too,  as  people  sometimes  are  who  have  little  belief  in 
human  nature,  or  who  have  not  been  lucky  in  their 
friends.  I knew  this,  and  during  that  last  weary  winter, 
when  Mark  and  I were  living  out  the  end  of  our  play, 
and  I was  learning  my  bitter  lesson,  I used  to  go  to  the 
Berrys’,  and,  with  a half-scornful  daring  I could  not  ex- 
plain, say  things  that  I knew  would  be  repeated  and 
commented  on,  and  in  my  soul  I scoffed  and  scorned 
him  for  judging  me  by  hearsay.  All  the  years  he  has 
been  away  I have  done  the  same.  Mrs.  Berry  told  me 
she  wrote  to  him  once  a month ; I tried  to  give  her  some- 
thing to  say — I knew  how  he  would  sneer  at  this  or  in- 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  127 

terpret  that  after  his  own  fashion,  and  I have  lavished  a 
measureless  scorn  upon  him  in  my  silent  heart  for  doing 
so.  But  enough. 

I am  glad  you  have  had  a visit  from  John,  dear  Nell. 
He  gave  no  hint  of  his  intention  till  the  morning  he  was 
starting  ; then  suddenly  he  said  : 

“I  am  sorry  to  have  missed  Nellie,  and  shall  run 
down  to  Worcester  for  a day  to  see  her.’'  He  was 
always  fond  of  you ; no  wonder  he  wanted  to  see  you 
again.  He  said  you  were  very  gentle  and  sweet,  and 
did  him  a world  of  good.  Ask  him  again,  if  you  can. 

There  is  a scrap  of  news  that  amused  me  when  I heard 
it : James  Harrison  is  staying  at  Daffodil.  Aunt  Maria 

invited  him — the  once  despised  James  Harrison.  She 
wrote  and  told  me  that  he  was  there,  that  he  was  very 
different  from  formerly,  most  fastidious  in  his  tastes,  that 
he  found  her  dear  girls  charming,  and  that  she  greatly 
admired  him.  It  is  easy  to  see  through  : she  means  to 
let  Isabel  marry  him ; Grace  is  already  engaged  to  a 
clergyman  who  has  a church  somewhere  in  the  West 
Indies — a dismal  prospect.  Well,  Isabel  will  make  a 
good,  submissive  little  wife  to  James : probably  she  will 
like  the  house  in  Gower  street — will  think  it  altogether 
satisfying.  Yes,  it  is  a match  that  would  do ; I hope 
with  all  my  heart  it  will  come  off,  and  poor  old  James 
be  happy  at  last. 

What  else  ? I have  strengthened  my  soul  by  reading 
some  Browning.  How  well  he  makes  one  love  strong 
men  ! His  women,  too,  have  hearts  that  beat  and  blood 
that  flows  quickly  through  their  veins.  A living  world 
he  gives  us,  and  not  a world  of  pulseless  shadows  that 


128  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

seem  only  to  move  in  the  moonlight,  and  to  have  no 
strength  in  the  light  of  day. 

Yesterday  Lady  Mary  Sully  came  to  see  me;  she  is 
some  relation  of  Sir  Noel’s,  and  seems  to  take  a senti- 
mental interest  in  me.  If  she  did  but  know — but  I for- 
got— have  I told  you  about  Sir  Noel  Franks?  He  comes 
here  often.  Do  you  know  him  by  reputation?  He  is 
clever  and  diplomatic;  people  say  he  will  be  in  the  next 
Government,  that  he  is  one  of  the  coming  men  in 
politics.  He  ought  to  be  “ come  ” and  not  “ coming,” 
for  he  is  fifty,  and  looks  it,  very  bald,  very  silent,  and  a 
little  sombre ; cold  in  manner,  careful  in  making  a 
statement,  rather  stately  and  dried-up-looking,  withal  in- 
teresting. Plan-making  and  ambitious,  I should  say  ; he 
interests  me  in  a cold  and  intellectual  manner ; he  would 
not  be  bad  if  one  wished  to  make  a worldly  marriage. 
He  contemplates  making  an  unsentimental  one  with  me 
if  I will  have  him.  I know  that ; I hear  it  in  his  voice, 
polite  and  complimentary ; see  it  in  his  eye,  criticising 
but  satisfied.  He  thinks  I should  do,  dear  Nell.  I am 
flattered,  but  I keep  his  proposal  at  bay  for  the  present. 
In  the  future  I may  bring  it  on  to  refuse  and  have  done 
with,  or  to  deliberately  accept.  Love  is  a finished  story, 
and  if  I marry  it  must  be  from  ambition.  Love  is  not 
all,  I said  a few  letters  back,  and  it  is  true ; moreover, 
with  my  past  and  my  feeling,  I could  not  endure  to 
marry  a man  overmuch  in  love  with  me.  He  might  be 
demonstrative  and  affectionate.  It  would  drive  me  mad ; 
I should  hate  him.  I am  not  dead  enough  even  yet  to 
endure  sentiment  I do  not  share.  Things  cannot  go  on 
always  as  they  are  now.  John  will  marry,  I hope,  and  1 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  129 


must  make  a home  somewhere.  I do  not  feel  that  I can 
make  it  alone  ; I am  not  sufficiently  strong-minded  ; and 
though  I do  not  want  to  love,  the  feminine  instincts  are 
still  strong  within  me,  and  I hunger  after  being  cared 
for  in  some  sort  of  a fashion — the  colder  the  better.  I 
want  to  be  a consideration  to  some  one,  nay,  even  a 
burden ; I want  to  spend  some  one's  money — a droll 
thing  to  say,  but  I do  not  say  it  in  a mercenary  spirit* 
but  only  because  there  is  an  unconscious  pleasure  in  the 
exercise  of  one’s  feminine  weaknesses,  to  be  the  first 
person  in  some  one's  home,  the  chief  person  in  some 
one's  life,  the  person  he  was  bound  to  consider  first ; and 
the  more  distinguished  the  man,  the  greater  would  be 
my  inward  satisfaction  : since  love  is  denied  me,  all  this 
is  my  longing.  A career  for  myself  I simply  could  not 
endure  except  that  which  consisted  in  helping  to  make 
one  for  some  one  else.  Yes,  I think  I could  find  life 
worth  living,  if  I must  live — and  life  is  a terrible  per- 
sistent  thing — in  helping  a clever  man,  and  especially 
a diplomatist,  to  make  a career — could  know  something 
that  would  even  pass  itself  for  happiness,  in  sharing  the 
rewards  that  in  my  secret  soul  I knew  I had  helped  to 
win.  There  is  an  excitement,  too,  in  helping  to  govern 
the  country,  to  make  history,  as  do  all  clever  men  who 
take  an  active  part  in  public  affairs.  I should  like,  if  I 
marry,  to  gain  that  as  compensation  for  all  that  will 
never  come  to  my  heart  again.  But  I have  kept  Sir  Noel 
at  bay.  I cannot  bring  myself  to  take  the  fipal  step,  and 
there  is  no  occasion  while  I still  have  my  dear  John. 

I have  almost  a horror,  so  strong  is  my  shrinking,  of 
facing  the  world  alone ; but  for  that  I would  not  con- 
9 


130  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

template  marriage  at  all,  and  only  can  contemplate  it  in 
the  shade  of  an  ambitious  outside  life  ; a quiet  one,  such 
as  James  Harrison  thought  might  satisfy  me,  would  be 
worse  than  suicide.  But  to  go  back  to  Lady  Mary.  She 
called  yesterday  and  sat  a long  time  telling  me  Sir  Noel’s 
history.  He  was  very  much  in  love  when  he  was  a 
young  man  with  a daughter  of  a West  Country  parson  ; 
they  were  engaged,  and  he  was  devoted  to  her;  she  jilted 
him  to  make  a grander  marriage,  for  he  was  then  poor 
and  without  prospects.  She  became  a fashionable  per- 
son, a leader  in  society,  and  finally  went  abroad  with  her 
husband,  who  is  governor  at  an  important  place.  Sir 
Noel  gave  up  sentiment  after  this  experience,  has  never 
cared  for  women  since,  and  is  not  likely  to  do  so  now. 
I think,  from  what  Lady  Mary  says,  that  he  felt  a cer- 
tain dogged  joy  at  first  in  succeeding  to  a relation's 
money,  in  being  successful ; but  all  this  is  merged  now 
in  the  eagerness  of  statesman.  Still,  though  he  has 
ceased  to  take  a keen  interest  in  women,  he  feels  that 
the  time  has  come  when  it  would  be  as  well  to  marry. 
He  thinks,  as  I say,  that  I should  do.  Perhaps  I shall, 
dear  Nell ; I do  not  know.  I have  become  a cold  and 
worldly  woman,  just  as  he  has  become  a cold  and 
worldly  man.  So  we  should  agree,  neither  expecting 
nor  desiring  nor  exacting  impossible  things  of  each 
other,  yet  finding  plenty  to  fill  our  lives,  and  having 
joint  interests  enough  to  make  us  pull  together  with  a 
certain  pleasantness. 

Dear,  it  is  two  years  since  your  husband  died.  Could 
you  not  bear  to  come  to  town  for  a bit  and  stay  here  ? 
You  must  bring  the  child,  of  course.  I should  love  to 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  131 


hear  the  sound  of  your  footsteps  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
to  listen  to  your  voice,  to  see  your  little  one,  to  play  with 
it  and  nurse  it.  I am  hungry  for  the  sight  of  a child 
that  belongs  to  someone  who  is  dear  to  me.  What  a 
wonderful  thing  it  must  be  to  have  a child  of  one's  own 
if  one  loves,  or  has  loved,  its  father  ! To  know  that  the 
life  is  there  because  you  and  he  have  loved,  and  out  of 
your  love  has  grown  all  the  immortality  that  humanity  in 
itself  can  know.  Life  after  life  may  dawn,  even  race 
after  race  may  grow,  and  a strong  nation  rise  because  in 
the  beginning  two  people  have  loved  each  other.  Your 
child  and  his,  your  life  and  his  going  on  when  you  and 
he  alike  are  gone,  and  her  child  perhaps  after  her ; and 
again  and  again ; all  because  in  the  by-gone  days  you 
two  loved  and  were  together.  I wish  you  would  come, 
dear,  and  stay — as  long  a time  as  you  can.  You  would 
make  me  better,  more  womanly — you  see  how  selfish  I 
am  in  wanting  you — you  would  soften  me.  Sometimes 
now  I feel  so  hard.  It  is  only  a shell ; but  there  are 
shells  that  nothing  can  break  ; I do  not  want  to  own  one 
of  them,  to  be  forever  beyond  reach  of  the  best  in  the 
world — you  and  your  child,  Nellie,  and  the  like  of  you. 

We  dine  out  to-night,  go  to  the  Grahams'  “ at  home,” 
and  the  Tetleys'  ball  afterwards.  I like  it ; like  to  look 
at  the  people,  each  one  with  his  history,  his  secrets,  his 
ambitions,  his  memories,  all  nicely  veneered  over  for  the 
evening  with  a convenient  social  manner.  I like  to  see 
the  little  crowd  on  the  pavement  outside,  watching  the 
guests,  descend  from  their  carriages,  dim  figures  that 
seem  to  have  come  out  of  the  darkness  to  watch  us  step  - 
into  the  light.  I see  their  eyes  on  me,  I feel  them  watch 


132  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 

me  enter  the  place  into  which  they  peer  so  curiously,  and  I 
think  how  merrily  I could  laugh  if  suddenly  I might  be  one 
of  them  ; if  I might  go  back  to  a cellar  home,  and  fan  the 
fire  into  a blaze,  and  by  its  light  look  up  at  homely  faces 
that  loved  me  and  made  the  whole  wide  world  a blessed 
place,  no  matter  whether  pain  or  poverty  came  or  lagged. 
I am  a fool,  Nell,  a fool,  for  I long  and  hanker  after 
love  still,  though  it  is  all  over  and  done  with  forever  and 
forever.  I will  write  and  ask  Sir  Noel  and  some  others 
to  dine  as  an  antidote  to  all  this  nonsense.  Come  and 
stay,  Nellie.  I long  for  you. 

XIV. 

MADGE  TO  MARK  CUTHBERTSON. 

March  8 , 1884. 

Dear  MARK,-^-John  told  me  that  you  were  back,  and 
of  his  meeting  with  you  yesterday,  and  that  you  said  you 
wanted  to  come  and  see  me.  It  is  a little  formal  to  write 
and  ask  leave  after  that,  is  it  not  ? But  perhaps  you 
have  many  engagements  and  no  time  to  come  just  on  the 
chance  of  finding  me  at  home.  So  this  is  to  tell  you 
that  you  will  find  me  any  day,  as  a rule,  at  about  five. 
Or  will  you  come  and  dine  at  eight  on  Wednesday  next 
week?  John  told  me  to  invite  you.  One  or  two  others 
are  coming;  not  many.  Yours,  M.  B. 

XV. 

MADGE  TO  NELLIE. 

March  9th. 

Mark  has  sent  me  a note,  one  of  his  own  vague,  in- 
comprehensible ones.  He  is  coming  to  dineon  Wednes- 
day. All  the  rest  you  shall  know  later. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN L 133 

One  thing  more  only:  James  Harrison  and  Isabel  are 

engaged.  How  glad  I am  for  him,  for  perhaps  he  will 
be  happy  at  last ! She,  too,  will  be  happy,  I think.  But 
Aunt  Maria’s  tactics  are  amusing.  Poor,  despised  James 
Harrison  ! It  is  a topsy-turvy  world,  dear  Nell.  Come 
and  stay  in  this  portion  of  it  with  John  and  me  for  a bit. 

XVI. 

MADGE  TO  JAMES  HARRISON. 

March  8 , 1884. 

Dear  Cousin  James, — That  is  what  I shall  call  you  in 
future.  Has  it  a pleasant  sound  ? 

I am  delighted,  indeed,  to  hear  of  your  engagement 
to  Isabel.  I had  an  idea  of  what  might  happen,  I con- 
fess, when  I heard  that  you  were  staying  again  at  that 
most  beguiling  Daffodil.  My  best  and  truest  and  most 
cordial  wishes  for  your  happiness  now  and  always,  and 
for  hers,  too — you  must  consider  this  letter  to  be  written 
to  you  both.  Nothing  could  have  given  me  greater 
pleasure  than  your  news  this  morning. 

I feel  sure  that  you  are  very  lucky,  dear  cousin,  for 
you  have  had  all  sorts  of  worldly  prosperity  already,  and 
now  you  are  going  to  have  a dear  little  wife,  and  your 
children  the  kindest  of  mothers.  Tell  Isabel  I throw  up 
my  hat  for  joy  on  her  behalf. 

I shall  come  to  your  wedding  and  dance  merrily  if 
Aunt  Maria  gives  us  the  opportunity.  I am  glad  it  is  to 
be  immediately.  “ Happy  is  the  wooing  that  is  not  long 
a-doing,”  says  the  song  of  the  proverb. 

Till  then,  you  two,  farewell. 


Madge  Brooke. 


134  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

XVII. 

MADGE  TO  NELLIE. 

March  15th. 

I am  sorry  you  cannot  give  us  more  than  a week,  dear- 
est Nell,  but  that  is  better  than  nothing.  John  will  meet 
you  at  Paddington  on  Friday,  at  five.  We  will  have  a 
happy  time,  and  pretend  that  we  are  all  children  again. 

Yes,  I will  tell  you  about  Mark.  He  dined  here  last 
night,  but  he  hardly  said  three  words  to  me.  He  flirted 
the  whole  time  with  little  Mrs.  Browson.  She  is  young 
and  fresh,  of  the  dairy-maid  type,  but  very  pretty,  with 
lovely  coloring.  Her  husband  is  a rising  barrister,  ex- 
ceedingly calm  and  abstracted.  I think  he  is  grateful  to 
any  man  who  flirts  with  his  wife — it  takes  some  of  her 
exuberance  off  his  hands ; moreover,  he  considers  it  a 
sign  of  the  social  success  that  I somehow  divine  to  be 
his  secret  ambition. 

Two  days  before  the  dinner  Mark  called  here,  late  in 
the  afternoon  ; I felt  my  heart  stand  still  when  he  en- 
tered. It  was  three  years  and  more  since  we  had  met. 
He  is  a little  stouter ; he  does  not  look  such  absolutely 
good  form  as  in  the  old  days — his  appearance  does  not 
gratify  one’s  vanity  so  much.  His  expression,  too,  is 
not  so  good  ; it  is  more  worldly ; there  is  greater  sug- 
gestion of  sarcasm  in  the  tone  of  his  voice.  We  looked 
at  each  other  swiftly ; we  both  remembered — 

“ I thought  I would  come  and  see  you  before  Wed- 
nesday—we  can’t  talk  much  at  a dinner-party.  I wish 
you  would  not  give  one,”  he  laughed.  His  laugh  went 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  135 

through  me,  and  brought  back  a hundred  memories. 
“ Why,  you  are  not  much  changed.  Women  generally 
change  a good  deal  in  three  years, ” he  added. 

“ Perhaps  I am  really — ” I began,  but  could  not  go 
on.  It  was  so  strange  to  see  him,  to  hear  him  speak 
again,  to  remember  how  I had  cared  for  him.  Did  I 
care  still?  Do  I?  Ah,  Nell,  I do  not  know.  He  has  a 
power  over  me,  a spell,  an  influence,  but  what  it  is  I 
do  not  know. 

He  stayed  to  tea:  I watched  him  narrowly,  half 
afraid.  Once,  when  I handed  him  a cup,  his  hand  for 
a moment  touched  mine — it  went  through  me  and  made 
me  shiver.  What  did  it  mean  ? 

“ And  you  are  not  married  yet?  ” he  said,  intheold* 
mocking  manner. 

“ No.” 

“ You  ought  to  be.  Time  is  getting  on  ; you  are  not 
a girl  any  longer.”  Could  anything  be  in  less  good 
taste  ? 

“ No  ; but  marriage  is  not  everything,”  I answered. 

“ It  generally  is — to  women.” 

“Oh,  no — not  now.” 

“Unless  they  are  strong-minded.” 

“I  am  not  strong-minded,”  I answered,  “and  it  is 
iiot  everything  to  me.” 

“ You  are  so  inconstant,”  he  laughed.  “ You  are  not 
to  be  trusted.” 

“ What*do  you  mean?  ” I asked. 

“What  I say,”  he  answered.  There  was  a little 
scorn  in  his  manner  that  galled  me  to  the  quick. 

“Mark,  what  do  you  mean?”  I demanded,  in  a 


136  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

voice  that  I knew  was  half  entreating.  “ Speak  out 
plainly.’  ’ 

“ Don’t  make  a scene/’  he  said.  “ We  had  better 
change  the  subject.  I must  be  going  in  a few  minutes/' 

“ I don’t  want  to  change  the  subject,”  I said. 

“I  do,”  he  answered,  shortly.  “ Tell  me  how  you 
spend  your  time.  The  Berrys  says  you  are  always  go- 
ing out.  Turned  into  a fashionable  woman ; eh, 
Madge?” 

“ No,  indeed ; no.” 

“ I prefer  to  think  of  you  as  the  little  girl  I remember 
at  Daffodil  years  and  years  ago — we  won’t  say  how 
many,  since  it  is  a sore  subject.” 

Nell,  that  man  is  like  a scourge  to  me  ; and  yet,  un- 
less I loathe  him,  I love  him  still.  The  tears  came  into 
my  eyes,  and  I could  not  help  it,  while  I answered  : 

“ I am  the  little  girl  still,  at  heart — I am — ” 

“lam  glad  to  hear  it,”  he  answered,  as  if  he  did  not 
in  the  least  believe  me. 

“ The  girl  who  spent  all  those  days  on  the  river  three 
years  ago.”  Was  it  my  evil  genius  that  made  me  say  it? 

“ We  won’t  talk  of  those,  if  you  please,”  he  said,  de- 
cisively. 

“Why?” 

“You  are  a good  deal  changed  since  then,”  he  an- 
swered, in  the  same  tone ; and  after  a moment’s  hesita- 
tion, he  added,  “ and  so  am  I.” 

“Why  did  you  come  and  see  me,”  I asked,  trying  to 
pull  myself  together. 

“ I thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  me — that  I 
should  like  to  see  you.” 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  137 

“I  am  glad  to  see  you,”  I said.  “It  is  always 
pleasant  to  see  old  friends.” 

“I  am  glad  you  think  so.  I should  have  thought 
you  could  forget — even  old  friends,”  he  answered, 
watching  me  narrowly. 

“ Tell  me  what  you  mean.” 

“Nothing,”  he  laughed,  in  a manner  that  galled  me 
to  the  quick. 

“ Tell  me  about  your  work,”  I asked  trying  to  change 
the  subject. 

“We  have  not  painted  our  picture  yet,  Madge,”  he 
said,  with  sudden  gravity. 

“We  will  paint  it  later  on  in  life,”  I answered, 
“when  we  are  both  married — that  is,  if  you  like  my 
husband  and  I like  your  wife.”  He  did  not  seem  to 
recognize  his  own  words  again. 

“That  will  never  be;  you  know  that,”  he  said, 
softly.  My  heart  beat  wildly,  his  manner  had  grown 
tender.  I flogged  my  soul  with  the  remembrance  of  his 
old  jibes  and  taunts,  for  fear  lest  I should  love  him  once 
more — should  believe  in  him  again.  “ I wonder  why 
we  quarreled,”  he  added  almost  in  a whisper. 

“We  didn’t—” 

“ Well,  we  did  something  that  drew  us  apart.  Don’t 
you  think  we  were  very  foolish,  Madge?  The  scald- 
ing tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I could  not  answer ; but 
I gave  a little,  quick  nod.  He  saw  it,  and  over  his  face 
came  a look  of  satisfaction.  I loathed  him  for  it,  for  I 
knew  he  was  trying  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  me  again. 
But  it  shall  not  be,  Nell.  It  shall  not ; it  shall  not.  I 
have  put  one  barrier  between  us ; I will  put  others. 


138  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

He  went.  But  that  night  he  wrote  me  one  of  the  old 
fascinating  letters — letters  full  of  half-suggested  tender- 
ness, but  in  which  he  said  nothing  plainly  ; neither  that 
he  loved  me,  or  wanted  to  be  loved ; only  indirectly  re- 
proached me  for  being  false.  It  was  a letter  that  no 
woman  could  answer  plainly.  He  knew  it  when  he 
wrote  it. 

But  I read  it  a dozen  times,  and  kissed  it,  as  I have 
kissed  all  his  letters,  even  those  that  cut  me  sorely ; and 
I hated  and  scorned  him  as  it  is  given  to  few  women  to 
hate  and  scorn.  Last  night  he  dined  here,  devoting 
himself  to  pretty  Mrs.  Browson,  scarcely  looking  at  me. 
I am  only  a woman,  so  I revenged  myself  by  flirting  with 
Sir  Noel  Franks.  He  (Sir  Noel)  leaves  town  to-morrow 
for  a fortnight.  He  asked  if  he  might  call  here  to-day 
before  he  went.  I knew  well  enough  what  he  meant, 
and  answered  No.  I told  him  to  come  on  his  return. 
Nell,  I shall  marry  him.  God  help  me  ! And  yet  it  is 
the  best  thing  that  can  happen  to  me.  The  other  man 
would  break  my  heart  whether  I married  him  or  re- 
mained single.  With  Sir  Noel  I need  not  remember 
that  I have  one.  He  will  make  no  demand  on  it ; he 
will  satisfy  my  ambition.  I will  set  myself  a task  that 
will  only  be  finished  when  he  is  Prime-minister — or 
Foreign  Affairs,  which  is  more  picturesque — with  a 
policy  that  shall  keep  the  whole  of  Europe  respectful. 
He  will  give  me  money,  too,  and  ease  and  comfort. 
And  all  these  will  be  something,  some  compensation ; 
for  without  them  there  are  many  ugly  bits,  even  in  the 
most  romantic  worlds.  I don’t  want  to  depend  on  John 
always.  Besides,  I want  John  to  marry.  If  he  does  not 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 139 

find  a wife  for  himself,  I shall  find  one  for  him  as  soon 
as  I have  thrown  off  Mark’s  thraldom. 

A busy,  thinking,  diplomatic  life,  in  which  I have 
forever  to  be  en  evidence , up  and  doing,  always  planning 
this  step  and  that,  and  withal  keeping  note  of  the  intel- 
lectual rate  about  me ; finding  out  this  genius,  and  pre- 
senting him  to  the  world,  to  his  own  modest  dismay ; or 
rescuing  that  invention  from  the  jaws  of  the  middle- 
man, and  getting  honor  for  the  right  quarter.  Yes,  yes, 
that  is  what  it  shall  be.  I will  get  outside  myself.  It  is 
when  I stay  within  myself  that  I find  out  how  wretched 
a home  has  my  heart  made  me.  I will  get  outside. 
Nell,  tell  me  this ; is  love  a curse  or  a blessing  ? I 
sometimes  think  it  is  like  death.  A strange  comparison, 
you  will  say.  But,  like  death,  it  is  a doorway  we  go 
through  blindfold,  whether  we  will  or  not ; the  bandage 
falls  from  our  eyes,  and  we  find  ourselves  in  heaven  or 
hell.  There  is  less  space  in  the  universe  than  one  would 
think.  There  must  be  less ; for  heaven  and  hell  and 
this  world  of  ours  seems  crowded  and  packed  so  close 
together  it  is  but  a minute  from  one  to  the  other.  With 
Mark — oh,  my  God  ! what  I have  suffered  with  Mark. 
In  a single  hour,  in  that  by-gone  summer,  I have  felt 
the  licking  tongues  of  hell’s  fire  around  my  heart,  and 
the  soft  balm  of  heaven  smooth  and  kiss  away  all  memory 
of  them. 

I think,  perhaps,  I may  be  a better  woman  if  I marry 
Sir  Noel — may  think  further  away.  Do  you  understand 
what  I mean  by  that  expression  ? — shall  not  be  so  taken 
up  with  myself  and  the  passions  for  good  and  evil,  light 
or  darkness,  that  have  torn  my  better  self  to  ribbons. 


140  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

Mark  has  been  a sort  of  Juggernaut  to  me  ; has  ridden 
over  my  soul,  and  crushed  it,  with  all  the  longings  and 
higher  feelings  of  which  it  was  capable.  I have  been  at 
his  mercy  all  the  best  years  of  my  life — even  now, 
though  I dread  to  think  it,  I am  at  his  mercy  still.  I 
struggle  to  shake  him  off ; but  I cannot — cannot  ; and 
sometimes  yet  could  throw  myself  for  love  at  the  feet  of 
a man  I loathe. 

Ah,  well,  the  good  of  going  over  it,  where  is  it  ? 

Come  on  Friday.  I wish  you  could  have  brought 
your  baby  ; I am  glad  you  call  her  baby  still ; it  is  one 
of  the  sweetest  words  on  earth  to  a woman.  What 
fools  we  women  are,  dear  Nell ! but  sometimes  we  even 
love  each  other,  for  I love  you,  and  dearly. 

Madge. 

XVIII. 

MADGE  TO  MRS.  ROBERT  WILLIAMS. 

March  2jth. 

Dear  Aunt  Maria, — John  would  write  himself,  but 
he  is  tremendously  busy  to-day.  We  want  you  to  hear 
from  ourselves  a bit  of  news  that  makes  us  both,  and 
one  other,  very  happy  indeed.  John  and  Nellie  Hamil- 
ton are  engaged.  She  has  been  staying  with  us  for  a 
week;  yesterday  she  left;  John  took  her  back  to  Wor- 
cester, and  on  his  return  told  me  that  she  had  promised 
to  be  his  wife,  and  soon.  Nothing  in  this  world  could 
be  so  good  for  him — she  is  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  on 
earth,  made  for  him,  and  he  for  her.  You  cannot  im- 
agine how  glad  I am,  for  Nellie  has  always  been  my 


love  letters  of  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  141 

closest,  dearest  friend,  and  now  she  will  be  my  sister, 
too. 

I hope  Isabel  is  enjoying  the  buying  of  her  trosseau, 
and  looks  forward  with  great  joy  to  her  wedding.  We 
shall  be  delighted  to  come  to  it.  We  sent,  yesterday,  a 
case  of  Italian  glass,  which  we  lay  at  the  feet  of  the 
bride  and  bridegroom.  Isabel  will  find  a note  inside. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Madge  Brooke* 

XIX. 

TO  NELLIE. 

April  18th. 

It  has  been  a great  joy  to  tell  every  one  of  your 
engagement  to  John,  dear  Nell ; it  is  greater  joy  still  to 
see  how  happy  he  is.  Only,  I wish  you  would  not  wait 
till  September. 

No,  dear,  of  course  not — I should  not  think  of  feeling 
driven  from  home  because  you  are  coming  here.  I 
know  well — it  did  not  need  words  to  tell  me — how  wel- 
come I should  be  to  you  both.  But  life  must  and  shall 
take  some  new  shape.  Now  I cannot  trust  myself  from 
day  to  day ; this  infatuation  of  love  or  hate  must  end. 
Mark  is  playing  the  old  game  with  me — sheltering  him- 
self behind  vague  phrases,  seeming  to  be  one  thing, 
while,  all  the  time,  something  tells  me  that  he  is  an- 
other, and  he  says  no  word  by  which  one  can  make  sure. 
He  has  either  been  or  written  pretty  often  lately.  If  he 
comes,  he  puts  on  an  air  of  disapproval;  if  he  writes, 
there  is  a strain  of  half-tenderness,  half  cynicism  in  his 
letters,  as  though  I had  treated  him  badly,  almost  as  if 


142  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


he  liked  me,  yet  did  not  trust  me.  What  does  it  mean? 
He  calls  me  a woman  of  the  world,  and  sneers  at  all  I 
do,  and  listens  to  all  I say  with  an  expression  that  mad- 
dens me.  He  makes  me  feel  like  a culprit ; yet  what 
have  I done  ? It  must  and  shall  end  ; that  is  what  I 
say  to  myself  a hundred  times  a day.  Nothing  can  set 
things  right  between  us ; yet  every  time  I see  his  face 
and  touch  his  hand  I know  that  he  could  make  me  suf- 
fer again.  Madge. 

XX. 

TO  NELLIE. 

April  18th. 

It  is  all  over.  We,  the  little  group  that  knew  each 
other  so  well  in  by-gone  days,  are  all  thinking  of  marry- 
ing or  being  given  in  marriage. 

This  afternoon  I accepted  Sir  Noel,  we  are  to  be  mar- 
ried soon,  before  the  summer  is  over,  so  that  we  may  go 
away  (we  shall  not  want  much'  honeymoon)  and  come 
back  and  finish  out  the  season  together. 

Mrs.  Berry  called  to-day,  just  after  luncheon.  She 
talked  a great  deal  about  Mark — how  he  had  taken  her 
to  task  for  various  things.  Why  ? Her  husband  was 
dead,  and  he  thought  that  when  that  was  so  a woman 
ought  to  be  set  down  by  her  nearest  male  relation ; he 
was  the  nearest  one  she  had,  so  he  did  it.  Soon  her 
sons  would  be  grown  up,  then  no  doubt  they  would  take 
it  upon  themselves  to  direct  her.  It  never  seems  to 
occur  to  her  that  a woman  can  steer  her  own  course ; 
she  falls  in  quite  naturally  with  Mark’s  idea  of  the  in- 
feriority of  her  sex. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 143 

“ Still,  one  doesn't  want  to  be  dictated  to  about  every 
little  thing,"  she  said,  “and  that  is  what  he  would  like 
to  do ; and  then  he  never  judges  one  generously.  He 
always  seems  to  think  one’s  motives  are  so  mean,  or  so 
different,  at  any  rate,  from  what  they  really  are  ; I shall 
pity  the  woman  he  marries  with  all  my  heart.  He  is 
making  love  to  little  Kate  Seeley  now,"  she  added. 
What  a fool  I am,  Nell,  for  my  heart  stood  still  ! 

“ Who  is  she  ? " I asked. 

“ She  is  the  daughter  of  an  old  school-fellow  of  mine. 
He  met  her  at  my  house  and  made  himself  very  agree- 
able— he  can,  you  know — and  Mrs.  Seeley  invited  him, 
and  he  went ; but  I don’t  believe  that  it  will  really  come 
to  anything." 

*'  Is  she  pretty  ? " 

*'  Oh  yes,  and  she  thinks  a good  deal  of  herself;  but 
she  is  twenty  and  fresh  ; and  that  is  what  he  likes."  It 
sets  my  teeth  on  edge.  Yes,  that  is  what  he  likes. 
Probably  he  comes  here  to  strengthen  his  dislikings,  and 
goes  to  her  to  strengthen  his  likings.  Oh,  Nellie,  how 
I loathe  him  ! and  yet  it  is  only  yesterday  that  I covered 
the  hands  he  had  shaken  as  he  said  good-bye,  with 
kisses,  and  listened  to  his  footsteps  going  down  the 
stairs,  as  though  they  were  the  sweetest  music  in  the 
world  to  me,  and — Heaven  help  me — they  were.  Those 
dear  footsteps — my  heart  will  awake  and  beat,  I think, 
if  some  day  they  pass  over  the  place  where  I lie  buried. 

i 1 Where  does  Miss  Seeley  live  ? ’’  I asked  Mrs.  Berry. 

“ At  Richmond.  Probably  he  only  makes  her  an  ex- 
cuse to  go  down  to  the  park  of  an  afternoon." 

“Did  he  tell  you  about  her ? " 


144  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

“ No,  her  mother  told  me  about  him.  I dare  say  she 
would  like  to  marry  him,  but  I don't  suppose  he  means 
to  marry  her.  He  always  liked  flirting  with  a girl  you 
know,  he  never  means  anything." 

“No,  of  course  not,"  I said.  “He  never  means 
anything." 

“He  likes  to  amuse  himself;  but  he  never  seems  to 
think  much  of  any  one.  I don't  believe  he  will  ever 
care  for  any  one." 

I was  glad  she  told  me  that ; it  hardened  me,  and 
made  me  shudder  to  remember  how  he  had  made  love  to 
me  in  by-gone  days.  What  a degradation  it  was  ! 

Sir  Noel  came  an  hour  after  she  had  gone.  I wel- 
comed him  with  thankfulness  ; I could  have  put  out  my 
hands  to  him  like  a drowning  woman.  A single  glance 
at  his  face  showed  me  why  he  had  come.  His  manner 
was  perfect,  it  is  always  excessively  courteous  and  con- 
siderate towards  women,  and  it  has,  besides  a simple 
straightforwardness  that  makes  one  breathe  freely.  He 
looks  good,  too — I felt  that  as  I looked  up  at  his  face. 
The  sight  of  him,  with  all  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that 
were  upon  me,  was  like  a rush  of  cool  air  after  a stifling 
madness  of  years. 

“ Miss  Brooke,"  he  said,  when  we  had  got  through 
our  greetings,  “ I have  not  come  to  pay  you  an  ordinary 
visit ; but  one  on  a matter  of  the  greatest  importance— 
that  is,  to  me."  He  spoke  with  extreme  deference — all 
through  the  interview  he  treated  me  with  more  and  more 
deference,  as  he  became  more  and  more  convinced  that 
his  suit  would  prosper.  “I  have  thought  a good  deal 
of  how  to  put  into  words  what  I wish  to  say  to  you — 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  145 

into  the  words  most  likely  to  gain  your  sympathy  and — 
assent ; but  I am  afraid  my  diplomatic  experiences  have 
mostly  been  with  my  own  sex,  and  I may  spoil  my  own 
cause  by — ” 

He  stopped  for  a moment,  and  I looked  at  him  criti- 
cally : tall  and  thin,  almost  soldierly  in  his  bearing,  his 
voice  a little  low  and  excessively  refined  in  its  tone. 
There  was  restfulness  in  the  thought  of  giving  my  weary 
life  over  to  him,  yet  I thought  of  Mark’s  grave,  almost 
cynical  face — oh,  my  love,  and  dream,  and  torturer, 
whom  I am  forever  driving  out  of  my  life,  what  fiend  is 
it  I wonder,  that  lodges  in  your  soul  makes  you  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  surely  God  meant  you  to  be  ? If  only 
I might  respect  you,  might  think  of  you  as  even  the 
vaguest  ideal,  though  I never  saw  you  again  in  this  wide 
world,  I could  be  thankful  and  satisfied.  It  is  the  scorn 
that  kills  me. 

But  there  stood  Sir  Noel,  for  he  had  risen  before  me, 
and  there  stood  I,  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  look- 
ing idly  at  the  china  on  it ; and  he  had  to  be  answered. 

“Diplomacy  is  an  art  that  men  usually  try  to  keep 
apart  from  women,”  I said. 

“ You  are  right, 99  he  answered,  gravely,  “ and  I will 
put  what  I have  to  say  into  the  simplest  words  I know. 
Miss  Brooke,  will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  become  my 
wife?  ” His  voice  was  coldly  eager,  there  was  anxiety 
on  his  face,  greater  courtesy  than  ever  in  the  very  atti- 
tude of  his  head  ; but  of  sentiment,  of  passion,  not  a 
sign.  How  good  it  was  to  see  it ! I felt  as  if  all  the 
love  I had  given  in  the  past  years — nay,  all  the  love  that 
had  been  given  me,  too — was  being  laid  in  its  grave* 
10 


346  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

and  that  these  precise  words  were  the  will-o’-the-wisp 
that  danced  over  it.  I could  almost  hear  some  ghostly 
music,  and  fancy  that  it  came  from  a distant  empty 
church,  that  dead  fingers  touched  the  keys  and  brought 
it  forth.  But  outwardly  my  manner  was  cold  and  self- 
possessed,  as  courteous,  too,  as  his  own  ; we  were  a truly 
well-mannered  couple  as  we  stood  and  arranged  our 
marriage. 

“Why  do  you  want  to  marry  me?”  I asked,  curi- 
ously. 

“ I have  the  greatest  admiration  and  respect  for  you. 
1 should  be  most  proud  and — -”  I do  not  know  how  he 
went  on ; all  the  time  I was  looking  coldly  on  at  the 
funeral  of  my  life’s  romance  ; unknown  to  himself,  this 
middle-aged  diplomat  with  the  thin  face  and  iron-gray 
hair  was  conducting  its  funeral  service.  Suddenly  I re- 
membered the  torment  I had  suffered  once  before  when 
I had  not  dared  to  tell  Austin  Brian  of  the  past. 

“ I have  a regard  for  you,  Sir  Noel,”  I said,  and  heard 
with  surprise  my  own  voice  falter,  but  I could  not  steady 
it;  “and  I am  an  ambitious  woman.” 

“ Ah  ! ” he  gasped,  faintly. 

“ I could  only  be  satisfied  with  a man  who  was  ambi- 
tious, too — whose  career  I might  perhaps  help,  as  well  as 
share.” 

“It  is  what  I desire,”  he  said,  in  a low  voice,  as 
though  he  were  making  a response  in  church.  His  voice 
will  sound  like  that,  perhaps,  when  we  are  being  married. 

“ But  I want  you  to  know,”  I went  on,  timidly,  “ that 
though  I like  you,  I am  not  in  love.”  I felt  ashamed  of 
the  foolish  word  the  moment  it  was  spoken — it  seemed 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  147 


so  foreign*  to  the  matter  with  which  we  were  concerning 
ourselves. 

“I  am  too  old  to  ask  for  that,”  he  said,  with  a little 
sigh.  He  is  only  fifty,  Nellie ; men  are  loved  at  that 
age,  nay,  long  past  it — at  any  age ; it  is  a question  of 
the  man  himself,  not  of  his  years  ; but  I thought  of  the 
story  Lady  Mary  had  told  me  and  understood.  “ I do 
not  even  offer  it  to  you,”  he  went  on,  simply,  “ only  my 
regard,  my  admiration,  to  make  you  my  first  and  great- 
est consideration  in  life — more  is  beyond  me ; it  is  too 
late.”  There  was  a world  of  by-gones  in  his  voice;  I 
knew  that  he  was  remembering,  and  was  touched,  more 
than  I should  have  been  had  he  professed  to  care  for  me, 
perhaps.  Then  I let  go  myself,  and  was  given  over  to 
the  fates  that  make  one  say  and  do  what  they  will  as 
they  weave  one’s  history. 

“ But  I want  you  to  know  ” — I heard  myself  saying 
with  a strange  manner  that  was  not  mine — “ to  know 
that  in  the  past  there  were  days  when — when — ” I 
rested  my  head  down  on  the  edge  of  the  shelf,  and  could 
not  go  on.  He  put  his  hand  on  mine. 

“ My  dear  lady,”  he  said  gently,  almost  sadly,  “ I 
am  asking  you  to  give  me  your  future,  to  share  mine. 
Our  pasts  are  our  own.  I cannot  unbury  mine ; I do 
not  ask  to  know  yours,”  and  he  was  silent. 

I looked  around  the  room ; it  wore  a strange  air,  as 
though  it  understood.  Do  you  know  the  suggestion  of 
still  life,  of  listening  that  mere  chairs  and  tables  some- 
times seem  to  have  ? I glanced  swiftly  at  all  the  familiar 
things.  Yes,  this  was  the  end  of  the  story.  Never 
through  all  the  years  should  I know — should  I hear — oh. 


148  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN, 

Nellie,  to  have  sauntered  through  the  woods  with  Mark 
just  once  more,  though  it  had  cost  me  all  the  old  sorrow 
and  bitterness  over  again — nay,  twice  again  ! I would 
have  consented  to  bear  it  gladly  at  that  moment  when  I 
was  putting  all  the  possibilities  forever  away  from  me. 
Then  I looked  up  at  Sir  Noel  and  put  out  my  hand.  He 
took  it  almost  reverently. 

il  Am  I to  understand — ” he  asked. 

“Yes,”  I said,  and  he  took  the  other  hand,  too,  and 
bending  down  kissed  them  both,  and  that  was  all. 

I sat  by  the  fire  for  two  hours  after  he  had  gone, 
thinking  it  all  over.  The  end  had  come,  and  for  one 
last  hour  I would  love  Mark  again,  and  then  forever  le* 
him  go.  Yes,  love  him,  though  I loathed  him  too,  and 
knew  him  to  be  a coward,  as  men  are  sometimes  with  a 
cowardice  they  only  make  known  to  women.  John  said 
the  other  day  with  a reluctance  that  showed  it  was  forced 
from  him,  “ I think  Mark  is  rather  a cad,  you  know.” 
I said  nothing,  for  it  was  true ; yet,  oh,  the  hardness  of 
tearing  his  fingers  from  about  my  heart ! I shall  have 
money  with  Sir  Noel — heaps  of  it — position,  comfort  and 
ease  all  my  life  long.  I shall  be  a personage  more  and 
more,  for  he  is  a man  who  will  never  be  satisfied  if  he 
does  not  surely  and  steadily  press  forward.  But,  oh,  to 
have  been  and  had  none  of  these  things  and  to  have 
married  Mark.  He  lives  in  lodgings,  pays  his  landlady 
two  or  three  pounds  a week,  perhaps,  and  grumbles  at 
her  cooking ; yet  to  have  shared  that  life  with  him  in- 
stead of  the  one  to  which  I am  giving  myself — no,  not 
myself,  but  some  one  who  has  taken  its  place.  Or  if  he 
had  been  poorest  poor,  a laborer  on  the  estate  of  the 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 149 


man  I am  going  to  marry,  and  we  had  lived  in  one  of 
the  little  cottages,  I could  have  been  the  happiest,  most 
blessed  woman  alive.  To  have  cooked  his  food  and 
washed  his  clothes,  have  waited  on  him,  watched  for 
him,  obeyed  him.  I would  not  have  complained  though 
he  had  been  cruel,  though  he  had  sworn  at  me  and 
cuffed  me.  I would  have  wept  in  secret  and  waited  for 
that  dear  moment  when  he  forgave  me,  and  I might  hear 
him  say  he  loved  me  again  and  feel  that  it  was  heaven. 
But  there — there — it  is  all  finished,  let  it  be. 

I do  not  know  how  late  it  was  when  Janet  came  in. 

“ I am  going  to  marry  Sir  Noel,”  I told  her, 

‘ 4 Thank  God,”  she  said,  4 ‘for  he  looks  like  a true 
man  and  honest  gentleman ; ” and  she  came  and  kissed 
me  and  smoothed  my  hair,  and  I wished  that  she  were 
smoothing  it  for  my  coffin.  Yet  I am  content,  and 
would  have  nothing  different  from  what  it  is. 

Good-night,  dear  Nell,  I am  very  tired.  Perhaps  I 
may  sleep.  Madge. 

XXI. 

TO  NELLIE. 

April  23  d . 

Before  I go  to  sleep  I must  tell  you  about  this  day, 
dear  Nell.  It  finishes  all.  First,  know  that  things  are 
to  be  hurried  on  ; we  are  to  be  married — Noel  and  I — 
on  June  1st. 

It  is  to  be  as  smart  a function  as  we  can  make  it;  but 
of  course  John  has  told  you,  and  you  must  come  up  as 
soon  as  you  can  and  help  me.  Now  for  the  rest. 

The  morning  after  I wrote  last  my  engagement  was 


150  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

announced  in  the  Post.  It  brought  quantities  of  letters, 
of  course — among  them  one  from  Mark. 

My  heart  sank  when  I saw  his  letter  ; I would  not 
open  it,  I decided  ; after  all,  it  was  an  example  he  had 
set  me.  So  swiftly  I put  it  into  the  fire  and  watched  it 
burn,  and  felt  my  heart  lighten  as  it  turned  to  tinder. 

Two  days  went  by.  Another  letter.  Doggedly  I put  it 
into  the  fire  again  and  held  it  down.  To-day  he  himself 
came.  It  is  always  the  same ; my  heart  beat  quickly  as 
he  entered  ; my  voice  was  no  longer  under  my  control. 
Shall  I ever  get  rid  of  this  madness  ? 

“ Why  didn’t  you  answer  my  letters?  ” he  asked. 

“I  burned  them.  I am  tired  of  congratulations,”  I 
said. 

“ I didn’t  send  any,”  he  answered,  and  looked  at  me 
in  the  old  tormenting  manner.  “ I told  you  the  other 
day  that  you  were  inconstant,”  he  went  on;  “ now, 
you  see,  I was  right.” 

I turned  and  faced  him. 

“ To  whom  have  I been  inconstant?  ” I asked. 

“ You  had  better  answer  that  question  yourself.” 

His  fencing  made  me  ache  with  scorn. 

“ Have  I been  inconstant  to  you  ? ” 

“ Well,  yes,  I should  say  so.” 

That  was  enough  ; I feared  he  might  go,  so  I stood  up 
and  spoke  quickly. 

“ It  is  false,”  I said.  “ Let  us  speak  plainly,  while 
the  chance  is  with  us,  and  this  last  time  that  I hope  we 
may  ever  speak  at  all.  I was  never  bound  to  you — 
never ; you  never  said  a word  to  me — never  one  that 
bound  you  to  me  or  me  to  you.” 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  151 


“ Words  ! ” he  said  cynically. 

“Yes — words.  All  the  bonds  that  the  world  recog* 
nizes  are  made  of  words.  Long  ago,  when  I was  a girl, 
you  made  love  to  me ; you  kissed  me  that  night  at 
Poona.” 

“ Yes,”  he  said,  with  a satisfaction  that  was  gall  to  me 
and  yet  spurred  me  to  go  on,  “ I did.” 

“ I thought  you  loved  me  then,  and  on  board  ship, 
and  afterwards  in  London.  Do  you  remember  when  we 
went  to  the  studio  that  first  day  of  all — ” 

“ Perfectly,”  he  said,  calmly. 

“ You  made  me  love  you  then,  and  wrung  admissions 
from  me,  though  you  made  none  yourself ; you  took  care" 
to  make  none.  You  were  always  cautious;  I have  seen 
that,  in  looking  back ; but  I remember  how  you  tortured 
me,  saying  I did  not  care  for  you,  till  I cried  at  last,  ‘ I 
do,  I do,  dreadfully ! 9 I wish  my  tongue  had  been 
burned  before  it  said  the  words.” 

“ They  were  not  true,  I suppose  ? 99  he  asked,  politely, 
with  a shade  of  curiosity  in  his  voice. 

“They  were,  indeed;  for  I did  love  you  all  those 
days,  and  months  and  months  before,  and  long,  long 
afterwards,  till — oh,  I don’t  know  till  when.  And  all 
that  summer  on  the  river,  when  we  were  together  every 
day,  and  you  treated  me  as  if  we  were  never  to  be  apart 
again,  and  spoke  of  the  future  as  if  we  were  going  to 
spend  it  together — ” 

“Precisely,”  he  remarked. 

“ Of  course  I loved  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul, 
with  all  my  life.  I should  have  been  like  one  of  those 
poor  women  we  are  not  allowed  to  speak  to  openly  if  I 


152  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 

could  be  all  that  I was  to  you  and  not  care.  Did  you 
think  me  bad  and  fast  and  wicked,  since  you  could  treat 
me  so?  I have  often  wondered — " 

“No,  I did  not/*  he  interrupted. 

“ Men  don't  make  love  to  girls  they  have  known  all 
their  lives,  as  you  had  known  me,  as  you  made  love  to 
me;  they  don't  treat  them  as  you  did  me,  unless  they 
love  them  and  want  to  marry  them." 

“Perhaps  I did,"  he  said,  calmly. 

“ Or  unless  they  think  them  what  I have  said.  Did 
you  think  me  that?  For  I was  not,  Mark;  I was  too 
innocent  then  to  know  right  from  wrong,  and  trusted 
you  wholly.  When  the  summer  was  over  you  grew  cool ; 
you  were  tired  of  me;  you  had  had  enough — " 

“ Perhaps,"  he  said. 

“You  talked  of  my  marrying  some  day;  you  hoped 
I should  be  married  to  some  one  who  would  be  as  fond 
and  proud  of  me  as  he  ought  to  be ; you  talked  of  your 
future  travels,  and  of  our  lives  as  separate  ways.  It 
nearly  broke  my  heart : the  shame,  the  sorrow  of  it,  and 
the  misery  that  was  mine." 

“Well?"  he  said,  in  an  interested  voice,  waiting  for 
me  to  go  on. 

“ I wrote  to  you  once  about  the  picture  we  were  to 
paint  together ; you  replied  that  we  would  do  it  further 
on  in  life,  when  we  were  both  married,  if  I liked  your 
wife  and  you  liked  my  husband." 

“ It  would  hardly  have  come  off  otherwise,"  he  said. 

“You  left  me  ; you  were  cold  and  distant ; you  gave 
me  to  understand  that  together  our  lives  had  finished. 
When  you  came  to  London,  after  months  of  absence, 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  153 


you  did  not  even  come  near  me.  Then  one  night,  in 
sheer  despair  and  misery — how,  God  knows — I got  en- 
gaged to  Austin  Brian.  I wrote  and  told  you,  and  could 
say  by  heart  every  word  of  the  letter  you  sent  back  ; you 
advised  me  to  keep  to  the  engagement,  though  I had  told 
you  how  it  fretted  me.  You  were  sorry  when  it  was 
broken  off,  and  all  the  time  you  never  made  a sign  by 
which  I could  suppose  that  you  cared.  Long  afterwards 
you  met  me  and  taunted  me  with  having  been  false  to 
you,  but  in  roundabout  ways,  so  that  I could  not  speak 
out.  Now  you  have  come  back,  you  have  been  about 
the  house,  you  have  called  me  inconstant  and  so  on; 
but  you  have  made  no  sign  of  caring  for  me,  and  now 
again  you  come  and  taunt  me.  Oh,  it  is  too  much  ! It 
was  only  the  other  day,  too,  that  I heard  you  were  mak- 
ing love  to  some  one  else — some  one  at  Richmond.' * 

“ She  is  very  pretty,"  he  remarked,  calmly. 

<(  Go  to  her,  and  leave  me  to  my  life.  I loved  you  in 
by-gone  days — God  knows  I did,  Mark.  I was  not  a 
wicked  woman ; I only  gave  my  life  and  heart  and  soul 
to  the  man  who  was  all  the  world  to  me,  for  you  have 
been  that ; I would  have  died  for  you  in  days  gone  by, 
and  I should  be  ashamed,  indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  so. 
It  is  my  justification.  I don't  hate  you  now,  but,  in  my 
heart  I have  a scorn  for  you  that  is  boundless — a scorn 
that  shakes  me." 

He  hardly  seemed  to  hear  me. 

“I  really  was  fond  of  you  in  the  studio  days,"  he 
said,  reflectively ; “ and  afterwards  by  the  river,  too ; but 
I grew  tired  of  that  before  the  summer  was  over.  I was 
bored.  I remember  seeing  a girl  once  with  very  bright 


154  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


eyes;  she  was  landing  just  as  we  put  off,  and  I thought 
how  much  an  hour  or  two  with  her  would  pick  me  up, 
and  then  the  winter  after  that  you  did  not  look  well — 
you  went  off  rather ; you  were  getting  older,  I suppose.1 9 

“ Oh,  Mark,  was  it  just  my  youth  and  bloom  that 
took  your  fancy?  You  never  had  any  real  love  for  me 
— never  any  in  the  world  ? ” 

“ Of  course,  one  likes  a pretty  girl,”  he  answered. 
“ And,  then,  I am  not  sentimental  ; love  is  not  in  my 
way,  and  marrying  isn’t.” 

“But  your  idea  was  that  I should  keep  true  to  you, 
while  you  should  in  no  way  be  bound — in  no  way  be 
true — to  me.” 

“ Precisely;  that  is  what  I meant,”  he  said,  with  a 
smile.  Then  he  went  on,  reflectively  : “ But  I certainly 
liked  you  better  than  any  woman  I had  ever  seen  at  one 
time,  and  perhaps  I do  now — I don’t  know  or  wish  to 
know.  Still,  since  I have  returned,  I must  frankly  own 
that  I have  found  you  thoroughly  disagreeable,  and 
really,  I don’t  see  the  least  use  in  our  going  on.” 

“ Going  on  with  what?  ” 

“ Well,  with — with  nothing.” 

“ If  you  did  care  for  me  in  by-gone  days,  why  didn’t 
you  say  so?  ” 

“I  suppose  I didn’t  want  to  be  answered.” 

“ Or  raise  a finger  to  prevent  my  marrying  or  getting 
engaged  ? ” 

“ I did  not  care  to.” 

“ Then  why  have  you  taunted  me  with  being  false  to 
you,  and  what  have  you  to  do  with  my  future,  or  I with 
yours  ? ” 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  155 


li  Nothing/ * he  said  again,  with  the  calmness  and  the 
smile  that  maddened  me;  “ you  are  taking  an  old  gen- 
tleman with  an  iron-gray  mustache  to  yourself.  He  will 
have  to  do  with  your  future,  I suppose.’ ’ 

“ While  you  make  love  to  the  young  lady  at  Rich- 
mond.” 

“ Probably;  till  I grow  tired  of  her.  Then  I must 
find  some  one  else  who  is  pretty.” 

I could  bear  it  no  longer. 

“ Mark,”  I said,  desperately,  “ go  away;  please  go 
away.  I cannot  bear  it  any  longer.” 

“ Oh,  certainly,”  he  answered,  with  a look  of  almost 
amusement.  “ It  is  not  very  polite  to  treat  an  old  friend 
so  ; but  perhaps  you  are  expecting — your  new  friend — ” 
“ Yes,  perhaps,”  I said,  entreatingly  ; “ only  go.  I 
cannot  bear  it  any  longer.” 

“Well,  good-bye;  your  manners  are  very  bad,  that  I 
must  say.  I hope  they  will  improve  when  you  are 
married.”  He  shook  hands.  I listened  again,  that 
last,  last  time  as  he  went  down  the  stairs — for  he  shall 
never  come  up  them  more — but  I listened  now  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  of  thankfulness.  I covered  my  face  with 
my  hands,  and  a strange  peace,  and  almost  joy,  stole 
into  my  heart.  Dear  God,  how  good  you  have  been  to 
me  ! If  I had  married  him  I should  have  died  of  loath- 
ing and  of  scorn.  It  is  all  over,  dear  Nell.  This  is  the 
end  of  the  story. 

24th . 

I am  so  glad  to  hear  that  you  and  John  are  to  be  mar- 
ried a month  sooner.  You  will  enjoy  Switzerland. 


156  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

No,  dear ; Noel  and  I are  going  to  Paris  after  our 
wedding  on  the  first  of  June.  Some  one  offered  us  a 
country-seat  to  honeymoon  in,  but  we  declined.  The 
country  is  for  lovers,  not  for  him  and  me ; we  want  a 
gay  city  like  Paris,  with  plays  to  go  to  and  dinners  to 
eat.  We  shall  be  excellent  companions.  I look  for- 
ward to  it — I am  almost  merry.  Oh  Nellie,  I am  go- 
ing to  be  content ! 

XXII. 

MADGE  TO  NELL. 

(AFTER  FOUR  YEARS.) 

Sept.  17th , 1888. 

Dearest  Nell, — We  were  so  sorry  not  to  see  you 
with  John.  We  will  take  excellent  care  of  him,  and 
send  him  back  on  Tuesday  with  as  many  birds  as  he 
will  carry.  I long  to  see  you  dear.  We  do  not  go  to 
town  till  the  session  begins,  but  you  and  I will  have  a 
pleasant  winter,  and  be  much  together.  Kiss  the  baby, 
and  tell  little  May  that  I think  of  her. 

There  is  something  I have  often  wanted  to  ask  you;  I 
will  do  so  now.  It  is,  did  you  destroy  all  those  foolish 
letters  I wrote  you  years  ago  about  Mark  Cuthbertson  ? 
I hope  you  did  ; tell  me  when  you  write.  What  a mad 
infatuation  it  was  ! Sometimes  I look  back  on  it  with 
horror. 

It  was  like  a madness.  How  thankful  I am  that  it 
ended  at  last ! It  might  easily  have  broken  my  heart, 
or  made  me  a bad  and  desperate  woman ; but  it  did 
neither.  It  only  made  me  into  somebody  else,  or  into 
another  self,  who  remembers  the  old  one  with  wonder, 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  157 

and  shrinks  now  and  then  even  yet  from  the  memory  of 
the  pain  she  suffered,  so  keen  it  was  and  terrible. 

I told  you  the  history  of  it  all  with  so  many  details 
that  you  ought  to  know  the  climax.  I could  not  bring 
myself  to  mention  it  on  my  wedding-day,  and  I have 
never  really  had  a chance  since — you  and  John  have 
been  such  gad-abouts  since  your  marriage.  It  is  an  ab- 
surd climax — I have  laughed  at  it  since,  but  I thought  it 
very  tragic  at  the  time.  Three  or  four  days  before  my 
marriage,  Mark  sent  me  a wedding  present.  It  was  a 
little  ebony  clock  like  that  which  used  to  strike  the  hours 
in  the  studio,  while  twilight  stole  in  and  we  sat  on  the 
bamboo  chairs  watching  the  crackling  wood-fire.  The 
sight  of  it  stupefied  me,  and  made  me  shudder ; it 
thrilled  me  with  a something  that  was  almost  fright.  I 
thought  at  first  that  I would  send  it  back,  but  I could 
not : to  keep  it  was  impossible.  I walked  up  and  down 
looking  at  it  half  scared.  What  follows  is  like  a farce. 

I wrapped  it  up  again  and  went  to  the  place  where  we 
had  spent  that  happy  summer.  I walked  from  the  train 
towards  the  river,  past  the  empty  cottage  where  Janet 
and  I had  stayed.  I stopped  at  the  Swan,  and  saying 
that  I wanted  to  dig  up  a root,  borrowed  a trowel. 
Then  I took  a boat  and  rowed  to  the  island  where  we 
had  often  gone  in  by-gone  days.  I made  the  boat  fast, 
landed,  threaded  my  way  through  the  underwood  to  the 
oak  tree  beneath  which  we  had  spent  so  many  hours.  I 
dug  a hole,  deep — deep,  it  was  the  hardest  work  my 
hands  ever  did,  and  then  I buried  Mark's  present.  I 
covered  it  tightly  down  and  turfed  the  ground  over 
again.  It  is  there  now,  I suppose — I wonder  how  it 


158  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN, \ 


looks.  Before  I put  it  into  its  grave  I wound  it  up.  I 
heard  it  strike  as  I filled  up  the  hole  with  earth,  and  the 
muffled  sound  frightened  me.  Now  and  then  I think  of 
it  buried  in  the  ground  under  the  oak  tree  on  the  silent 
island  ; and  I get  a fantastic  notion  that  one  day,  per- 
haps, the  world  as  it  goes  round  and  round  may  some- 
how turn  the  wheels  of  the  poor  little  clock  and  set  it 
going  again,  and  when  that  is  so,  I may  love  Mark  once 
more,  and  he  will  love  me  back  again ; but  never  till 
then.  I only  think  of  the  clock,  never  of  him,  and, 
thank  God,  Nell,  I am  content. 

Yes,  you  are  right,  I am  proud  of  Noel.  We  keep 
our  compact ; love  and  sentiment  are  ghosts  to  us  both, 
and  we  have  nothing  in  common  with  ghosts ; but  we 
are  excellent  friends  and  good  companions.  I like  my 
big  London  house,  and  the  amusing  mixed  parties  it  is  the 
fashion  to  give.  I think  sometimes  of  the  dim  crowd 
on  the  pavement  outside,  and  wish  I could  bring  that  in, 
too.  I like  our  little  dinners  to  Tories  past  their  prime, 
or  to  Radicals  who  are  coming  on,  or  the  big  ones 
which  are  carefully  arranged  so  as  to  contain  many  ele- 
ments. We  went  to  the  New  Club  one  night  last  season 
— did  I tell  you  ? — but  in  spite  of  the  people  we  met  and 
knew,  all  trying  to  look  rowdy,  we  could  not  stand  it, 
and  came  away.  Yes,  I am  satisfied  ; more  and  more 
ambitious  for  Noel ; proud  of  my  salon  and  the  men  on 
both  sides  of  the  way  who  come  to  it ; gradually  it  will 
grow  to  be  a power. 

A child  ? Children  are  very  well  for  lovers  like  you 
and  John.  For  Noel  and  me — well,  he  has  a nephew,  a 
tall,  thin  boy,  who  is  now  at  Eton.  He  will  be  made 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 159 


much  of  later.  And  there  is  your  little  May ; some  day, 
perhaps,  I may  be  her  chaperon  if  you  will  let  me,  and 
I will  keep  all  but  eligible  men  far  away  from  her.  What 
else  ? Oh,  dear  Nell,  there  is  nothing  else ; but  I am 
satisfied. 


ON  THE  WANE:  A SENTIMENTAL 
CORRESPONDENCE. 


i. 

HE. 

St.  James  Street,  W., 

Monday , June  23d \ 

My  dear  and  precious  one. — This  is  only  a line  to 
tell  you  that  I shall  come  and  dine  with  you  and  your 
mummy  this  evening,  at  the  usual  time.  I have  been 
thinking,  my  sweet,  that  we  had  much  better  be  married 
soon.  What  is  the  good  of  waiting — beyond  the  winter 
anyway?  We  must  make  arrangements  for  the  mummy, 
or  why  could  she  not  come  to  us?  I shall  talk  to  you 
seriously  about  it  to-night,  so  be  prepared.  I feel  as  if 
we  can’t  go  on  living  at  different  ends  of  London  much 
lo?'*ger  ; besides,  what  is  the  good  of  waiting  ? 

No  more  time,  dear,  for  I must  post  this  at  once. 
You  had  my  long  letter  this  morning.  Yours  was  just 
like  you.  I think  you  are  the  greatest  darling  on  earth, 
Gwen — I have  taken  it  very  badly,  you  see — and  I have 
got  something  for  you  when  I come  that  I think  you  will 
like.  Till  then  be  good  and  love  me.  Meet  me  down 
the  lane  if  you  can,  like  an  angel — no,  like  yourself, 
wnich  will  be  better. 

Your  devoted 


(160) 


Jim. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  161 


II. 


HE. 

Tuesday  Nighty  June  24th. 

You  were  so  very  sweet  last  night,  beloved ; I do 
nothing  but  think  of  you.  I do  trust  you,  darling, 
absolutely ; and  if  we  must  wait  till  Christmas,  why,  we 
must.  But  you  will  come  to  me  then,  won’t  you?  and 
we  will  be  the  two  happiest  people  on  earth.  I can’t 
rest  till  I have  seen  you  again.  I have  been  thinking 
that  if  you  met  me  to-morrow  at  four  at  the  Finchley 
Road  Station  we  could  have  a long  walk,  and  drive  back 
in  a hansom  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  in  time  for  dinner. 
Shall  we?  .If  so,  come  in  your  big  hat  and  the  white 
dress,  for  that  is  how  you  look  prettiest,  you  gyspy. 

Your  devoted 


Jim. 


III. 

SHE. 


Hampstead, 

Wednesday  Morning , June  25th . 

Only  to  say  of  course  I will,  darling.  I will  do  any- 
thing you  like.  You  looked  so  handsome  last  night  that 
I was  “ shocking”  proud  of  you,  as  you  would  say. 
Mother  says  the  sound  of  you  in  the  house  makes  the 
whole  place  joyful.  It  does.  I shall  love  a long  walk 
— dear  you,  to  think  of  it.  I’ll  be  there  in  the  big  hat 
and  the  white  dress,  according  to  the  orders  of  His 
Majesty  the  King. 

His  very  loving 

Gwen. 


11 


162  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN, . 

IV. 

HE. 

(A  MONTH  LATER.) 

Wednesday,  July  25th . 

Dearest  Child, — Sorry  I could  not  come  yesterday 
afternoon ; it's  an  awful  pull  up  that  hill,  and  the  day 
was  so  blazing  hot  that  I confess  I shirked  it.  You 
understand,  don’t  you,  darling?  I’ll  come  and  dine  on 
Friday  anyway.  My  mother  says  you  must  go  and  stay 
with  her  this  autumn.  She  is  enjoying  her  month  in 
town,  I think.  Good-bye,  my  child,  no  more  time.  I’m 
awfully  vexed  now  I didn’t  charter  a hansom  yesterday 
to  go  up  that  blessed  hill  on  the  top  of  which  it  pleases 
you  to  live,  or  climb  it  on  all  fours,  for  I want  to  see 
you  badly.  I have  been  very  busy,  and  naturally,  while 
my  mother  is  here,  I have  less  time  than  usual. 

Your  loving  Jim. 

V. 

SHE. 

Wednesday  Night . 

Yes,  old  darling.  I quite  understand,  and  I’ll  count 
the  hours  till  Friday.  Of  course  I was  disappointed 
yesterday,  but  I tried  to  console  myself  by  thinking  that 
you  might,  have  got  sunstroke  if  you  had  come;  and 
then  in  the  evening,  when  I felt  very  downhearted,  I 
read  over  a heap  of  your  letters — I mean  those  you  sent 
me  in  the  winter,  when  you  first  loved  me.  They  were 
so  very  loving  that  they  made  me  quite  happy  again. 
Am  I just  the  same  to  you  ? I don’t  know  why  I ask  it ; 
something  makes  me  do  so.  Do  you  remember  that 
night  we  walked  up  and  down  the  garden  till  nearly 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  163 

twelve  o'clock  and  talked  of  all  manner  of  serious 
things?  I often  think  of  it.  You  said  that  when  we 
were  together  we  would  work  and  read  and  try  to  un- 
derstand the  meaning  of  many  things  that  seemed  like 
lesson-books  in  the  wide  world’s  school,  and  that  now, 
in  the  holiday-time,  we  did  not  want  to  think  about. 
The  lesson-time  would  surely  come,  you  said,  so  that  we  1 
need  not  grudge  ourselves,  our  laughter  and  our  joy.  I 
remember  that  you  said,  too,  that  work  was  the  most 
important  thing  in  life,  and  I have  been  wondering  if 
that  is  so.  It  seems  rather  a cold  gospel.  But  perhaps 
you  are  right.  Your  love,  for  instance,  will  only  make 
my  happiness ; but  your  work  may  help  the  whole  world. 
Is  that  what  you  meant,  darling  ? All  this  because  of  that 
happy  night  when  you  took  my  face  between  your  hands 
aud  looked  at  me  almost  solemnly  and  said,  “ This  dear 
face  is  my  life’s  history,  thank  God  for  that.”  f I love 
you  so — oh,  so  much  when  I think  of  your  voice — but  I 
love  you  always.  Gwen. 

VI. 

HE. 

Thursday  Morning . 

You  Dear  Sweet, — You  are  a most  serious  person, 
and  a darling  and  a goose,  and  I long  to  kiss  you ; but 
look  here,  Gwennie,  I can’t  come  Friday  either.  Mars- 
den  insists  having  half-a-dozen  men  to  dine  with  him  at 
the  Club,  and  there  must  I be  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Will  Saturday  do?  Nice  day  Saturday,  comes  before 
Sunday,  you  know : best  preparation  in  the  world  for  it 
(seeing  that  I shall  be  made  to  go  to  church  next  morn- 
ing and  stay  till  the  end  of  the  sermon)  will  be  seeing 


% 


164  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 

you  the  night  before.  I think  I shall  have  to  take  a run 
to  Clifton  for  a little  bit  next  week,  if  so  I shall  miss 
your  garden-party,  I fear ; but  we’ll  talk  about  this  on 
Saturday. 

Yours  ever  and  ever  as  you  know,  Jim. 

Work?  Of  course  we  must  work.  It  is  one’s  rent 
in  the  world,  and  honest  folk  must  pay  their  way. 
Your  work  is  to  love  me. 

' VII. 

SHE. 

Thursday  Night . 

Yes,  Jim  dear,  and  I will  always  do  it.  Come  on 
Saturday.  I shall  be  miserable  if  you  are  not  at  our  gar- 
den-party, and  fear  I shall  hardly  have  heart  to  go  on 
with  it.  I am  a selfish  thing  ; but  as  you  say  will  talk 
of  it  on  Saturday.  Your  loving  Gwen. 

VIII. 

HE. 

( A telegram .) 

Saturday , 7:30  p.  M. 

Awfully  sorry.  Relations  turned  up.  Insist  on  my 
dining.  Will  come  Monday.  Jim. 

IX. 

SHE. 

Sunday , July  29th. 

Of  course  it  could  not  be  helped,  dearest,  yet  when 
your  telegram  came  I sat  down  and  wept  as  devoutly  as 
as  if  I had  been  by  the  waters  of  Babylon.  Relations 
are  exigeants,  I know,  and  you  were  quite  right  to  go  to 
them,  yet  I did  so  long  for  you  ; Our  little  feast  was 
ready,  and  I was  ready ; in  the  blue  dress  that  you  said 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN '.  165 


I looked  pretty  in.  I had  pinned  a rose  on  my  shoulder, 
and  wondered  if  you  would  pull  it  leaf  by  leaf  away, 
you  did  last  time,  do  you  remember?  I shuddered 
while  I thought  of  it.  It  was  like — but  I will  not  even 
write  it.  Oh,  Jim  dear,  how  well  we  can  sometimes 
make  ourselves  shiver  at  the  impossibilities  ! I know 
you  love  me,  but  the  little  things  that  have  kept  you, 
away  from  me  oftener  than  usual  lately  make  me  foolish 
and  nervous ; they  are  like  thongs  that  threaten  to 
become  a whip,  and  would  if  you  stayed  away  too  long. 
But  you  won't?  You  know  that  I love  you,  as  you  do 
me,  and  that  I am  weaker  and  cannot  bear  the  days 
apart  as  you  can,  you  who  have  many  things  to  fill 
your  life,  while  I have  only  you  to  fill  mine — only  you, 
for  whom  I would  die,  and  think  death  sweet  if  it  did 
you  even  the  least  little  good. 

When  I was  ready  last  night  I went  out  and  walked 
up  and  down  under  the  veranda,  before  the  windows. 

I looked  in  at  the  drawing-room  and  thought  of  how 
we  would  sit  there  on  the  little  low  sofa  after  dinner, 
watching  the  shadows  that  always  seem  to  come  steal- 
ing through  the  fir-trees ; and  of  how  we  would  talk,  as 
we  always  do,  or  of  the  days  when  we  wondered  and 
guessed  about  each  other,  and  were  afraid  and  hoped  ; 
or  of  how  we  would  plan  our  future  life  and  arrange  the 
things  we  would  some  day  do  together.  The  dining- 
room window  was  open,  and  I looked  in  there,  too,  at 
our  table  spread,  at  the  great  roses  in  the  bowl,  and  the 
candles  ready  for  lighting.  I thought  of  how  you 
would  sit  at  the  head,  as  though  you  were  master  al- 
ready, and  of  how,  when  we  had  nearly  come  to  an 


166  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN, . 

end,  dear  mother  would  rise,  as  she  always  does,  and 
say,  “ You  will  not  mind  if  I go,  dears;  I am  very 
tired  ?”  and  you  would  open  the  door  and  she  would 
pass  out,  giving  you  a little  smile  as  she  went ; and 
then  you  would  come  back  and  stoop  and  kiss  me  and 
say,  “ My  darling,”  just  as  you  always  do,  and  each 
time  seems  like  a first  time.  But  you  did  not  come, 
and  did  not  come — and  then  there  was  a telegram.  I 
know  the  quick,  loud  sound,  the  clangingness  that 
only  the  telegraph  boy  puts  into  the  bell,  as  well  as  I 
know  your  footstep.  Sometimes  my  heart  bounds  to  it ; 
it  leaps  to  heaven  for  a moment,  for  it  means  that  you 
are  coming ; and  sometimes  it  sinks.  Oh,  my  darling, 
if  you  only  knew  how  it  almost  stands  still  sometimes  ! 
— it  did  last  night — for  it  means  that  you  are  not  coming. 

Jim,  dear,  I am  a fool.  I know  you  could  not  help 
it.  But  I love  you  dearly,  and  will  all  my  life.  I kiss 
the  paper  because  your  hands  will  touch  it.  Good- 
night, my  own.  Gwen. 

X. 

HE. 

Monday  Morning. 

You  Sweet  Thing, — Your  letter  almost  makes  me 
ashamed  of  myself.  You  do  love  me,  Gwen,  and  I am 
not  half  good  enough  for  you.  I wonder  how  I dared 
go  in  for  a girl  like  you,  or  what  I ever  did  to  please 
God  that  He  should  give  me  a love  like  yours.  I often 
think  that  you  will  be  awfully  disappointed  when  you 
get  me  every  day  of  your  life  and  find  out  what  a com- 
monplace beggar  I am.  You  are  certain  to  find  that  out 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  167 


anyhow.  And  yet,  why  should  you  ? Does  not  Brown- 
ing say : 

« God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  His  creatures, 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 

One  to  show  a woman  when  he  loves  her.” 

I don't  suppose  that  I am  the  meanest  of  His  creatures, 
but  I am  not  as  good  as  you,  dear.  There  is  a sort  of 
looking-aheadness  towards  Heaven  in  you  that  is  wholly 
lacking  in  me.  I have  felt  that  very  keenly  lately,  and 
wondered  whether  any  vanity  would  let  me  stand  being 
made  the  subject  of  your  being  disillusioned  about  man- 
kind later  on.  There  is  one  thing  certain  : whatever 
happens  to  us  in  the  future,  we  have  the  memory  of  good 
love  behind  us ; for  I have  loved  you,  Gwen  dear ; 
always  remember  that. 

I will  come  up  this  evening,  and  we  will  have  a happy 
time  together.  I think  I must  go  to  Clifton,  after  all. 
Mrs.  Seafield  wants  me  to  help  them  through  With 
Tommy's  coming  of  age.  Awfully  nice  woman,  Mrs. 
Seafield,  and  one  ought  to  encourage  nice  people  by 
doing  what  they  wish  occasionally.  Be  good.  Don’t 
get  low-spirited  or  entertain  ghosts  unawares,  or  do  any- 
thing but  love  me  till  I come,  and  then  I will  tell  you 
that  I love  you,  which  will  be  better  than  saying  it  here. 

I think  you  ought  to  go  away  for  a bit ; you  strike 
me,  from  your  letters,  as  being  a little  strained  and  run 
down.  It's  all  my  fault,  isn't  it,  dearest?  For  I pre- 
vented you  from  going  to  Italy  last  winter  by  making 
you  be  engaged  to  me;  and  then  we  didn't  want  to  put 
the  big  distance  between  us.  Till  to-night 
Your  loving 


Jim. 


168  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

XI. 

HE. 

(A  Telegram.') 

Clifton,  August  3d. 

No  time  to  write.  Garden-party,  etc.,  Friday.  Let- 
ter to-morrow.  Staying  till  Wednesday.  Jim. 

XII. 

SHE. 

Tuesday  August  Jth. 

Dearest  Jim. — I have.been  hoping  and  hoping  to  hear 
from  you.  Is  anything  the  matter,  darling?  Are  you 
ill  ? Has  a letter  miscarried  ? Are  you  angry  with  me  ? 
I cannot  believe  that  four  whole  days  have  passed  with- 
out a word,  and  yet  I know  that  I am  foolish  to  worry 
myself,  for  this  silence  is  probably  due  to  some  trivial 
accident.  But  you  are  all  the  wide  world  to  me — you 
and  my  mother  ; and  in  these  last  days  apart  you  seemed 
to  have  tightened  and  tightened  round  my  heart  till  I 
cannot  even  breathe  without  thinking  of  you,  and  the 
least  little  bit  of  fear  about  you  makes  me  miserable. 

I am  very  foolish,  Jim,  for  on  Monday  night  after  you 
had  gone  I sat  up  till  it  was  nearly  daylight  thinking 
over  your  words  and  looks.  I fancied  they  had  been 
different — that  you  had  been  different  altogether  lately. 
Perhaps  it  is  only  a calm  setting  in,  a reaction  after  the 
wild  love-making  of  the  winter,  when  you  seemed  unable 
to  live  a single  day  without  me.  It  could  not  be  always 
like  that ; I knew  it  even  at  the  time.  Perhaps  I fancy 
it  all  ; write  and  tell  me  that  I do.  But  I have  felt 
since  Monday  as  if  only  the  ghost  of  your  love  remained 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  169 


to  me.  You  didn’t  seem  so  glad  to  be  with  me ; you  did 
not  look  at  me  so  often,  and  you  broke  off  to  talk  of  out- 
side things  just  when  I thought  your  heart  was  full  of  me 
and  love  of  me. 

Your  mother  came  yesterday.  She  did  not  stay  long. 
She  did  not  ask  me  to  go  to  her  in  the  autumn.  She  said 
that  she  had  heard  from  you,  and  my  heart  gave  a throb 
of  pain,  knowing  that  I had  not  had  a line.  In  her 
manner  she  seemed  to  divine  that  you  had  changed.  I 
went  up-stairs  after  she  had  gone  and  prayed  that  if  it 
were  so  I might  never  know  it.  But  for  my  poor 
mummy  I could  have  killed  myself,  so  as  to  die  in  the 
midst  of  uncertainty  that  was  torture,  and  yet  joy  com- 
pared to  the  knowledge  that  might  come — the  knowledge 
that  your  love  had  gone  from  me. 

But  to-night  I am  ashamed  of  all  my  foolishness,  all 
my  fears,  and  reproaching  myself  for  doubting  you ; for 
I know  that  you  love  me — I do  indeed.  I live  over  all 
your  words  and  looks.  Do  you  remember  that  night  by 
the. pond — we  stole  out  by  the  garden-gate — when  you 
said  nothing  could  ever  part  us  ; that  I was  never,  never 
to  doubt  you,  no  matter  if  you  yourself  had  made  me  do 
so  for  the  moment  ? You  made  me  swear  I never  would. 
You  looked  down  and  said  “ My  sweet  wife,”  and  made 
me  say,  “ Yes,  Jim,  your  wife  ” after  you,  because  you 
wanted  me  to  feel  that  the  tie  between  us  could  never  be 
broken.  It  is  the  memory  of  those  words,  of  that  night, 
that  helps  me  through  the  misery  and  wicked  doubting 
of  you  now.  Come  and  beat  me  for  the  doubting  with 
a thick,  thick  stick,  and  I will  count  each  stroke  as  joy, 
and  love  you  more  and  more  for  every  one  that  falls.  It 


170  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

is  the  memory  of  that  night,  too,  that  makes  me  send 
you  this — that  gives  me  courage  to  pour  out  all  my  heart 
to  you.  The  days  have  passed  for  make-believes  between 
us : I cannot  pretend  to  you ; I am  yours,  your  own, 
and  very  own.  Write  me  one  line  and  make  me  happy 
again,  and  forgive  me,  or  scold  me,  or  do  what  you 
will,  so  that  you  love  me — tell  me  that,  and  I shall  be 
once  more  what  I have  been  all  these  months,  the  hap- 
piest, most  blessed  girl  in  the  whole  wide  world, 

Gwen. 

XIII. 

HE. 

Wednesday , August  8th . 

Dearest  Gwen, — What  a sentimental  child  you  are  ! 
I have  been  busy : tennis,  dances,  garden-party,  picnic, 
Tommy  coming  of  age,  and  speeches — all  sorts  of  things 
crowded  into  a week.  No  time  for  letter-writing.  It  is 
very  jolly  here,  and  everything  uncommonly  well  man- 
aged. Nice  people  in  the  neighorhood;  dinner-party 
last  night ; took  in  Ethel  Bertram — handsome  girl,  beau- 
tiful dark  eyes,  said  to  be  worth  a pile  of  money. 

I think  you  ought  to  have  more  occupation,  dear; 
you  seem  to  be  so  dependent  now  on  your  affections  and 
emotions;  you  want  something  more  to  fill  your  life.  I 
wish  you  had  a younger  companion  than  your  mother — 
you  must  try  and  get  one  somehow.  I am  going  on  to 
Devonshire,  on  Thursday,  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and 
shall,  perhaps,  stay  here  again  for  a day  or  two  on  my 
way  back.  Don’t  fidget,  dear  child.  No  more  time. 

Jim. 


IOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  171 


XIV. 

SHE. 

Thursday , <yth 

Jim,  darling,  don't  say  I am  sentimental — it  sounds 
like  a reproach ; but  you  know  we  always  write  each 
other  foolish,  loving  letters.  I am  glad  you  are  having 
a good  time.  I suppose  it  was  very  foolish  of  me  to  be 
unhappy,  but  it  has  been  so  odd  to  find  morning  after 
morning  going  by  and  no  sign  from  you.  You  spoiled 
me  at  first  by  writing  every  day. 

You  didn't  say  you  loved  me  in  your  note — tell  me 
that  you  do  next  time ; but  don’t  write  till  you  want  to 
do  so.  Be  happy,  darling,  and  I will  be  happy  too,  in 
thinking  of  you.  Gwen. 

XV. 

HE. 

{A  Telegram .) 

Horrabridge,  S.  Devon, 
Friday , August  nth . 

Had  letter  yesterday.  Will  write  soon.  Here  for 
some  days.  Jim. 

XVI. 

SHE. 

Thursday , August  22d. 

Jim,  dear,  do  send  me  a line.  It  is  nearly  a fortnight 
since  I heard  from  you,  and  for  a long  time  your  letters 
have  been  different,  they  have  indeed,  though  I have 
tried  to  disguise  it  from  myself.  I cannot  bear  it  any 
longer.  Tell  me  what  it  all  means,  for  it  must  mean 


172  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

something.  Speak  out,  I implore  you.  You  are  not 
afraid  of  me,  are  you,  darling  ? Your  own  loving 

Gwen. 

XVII. 

HE. 

Horrabridge,  August  24th . 

It  is  strange  how  quickly  a woman  divines ; and  your 
heart  has  told  you  what  I have  not  had  the  courage  to 
say.  Gwen,  dear,  I want  to  break  it  off,  not  because  I 
do  not  think  you  what  I have  always  thought  you,  or 
because  I care  for  any  one  else,  but  simply  because  I 
want  to  be  free.  Our  engagement  no  longer  gives  me 
the  pleasure  it  did ; I look  forward  to  marriage  as  a sort 
of  bondage  into  which  I do  not  want  to  enter.  I am 
perfectly  frank  with  you  because  I feel  that  in  an  im- 
portant matter  like  this  it  is  only  right.  Then,  dear, 
you  know  my  mother  never  approved  of  it ; parents  are 
prudent  people,  and  she  thought  the  whole  business  un- 
wise. I struggled  against  her  reasoning  all  I could,  for 
I loved  you,  and  thought  of  your  face,  and  of  how  you 
loved  me.  But  Gwen,  dear,  there  is  a good  deal  in 
what  she  says.  You  see  you  couldn’t  leave  your  mother; 
and  we  should  have  to  be  careful  about  money ; for  1 
am  not  a frugal  beggar,  and  there  are  lots  of  difficulties. 
I ought  to  have  thought  of  them  before,  but  you  were 
so  sweet  and  good,  a thousand  times  too  good  for  me, 
that  I could  think  of  nothing  but  you.  Say  you  forgive 
me,  and  believe  that  I have  loved  you,  for  I have,  and 
you  won’t  hold  me  to  it,  will  you,  Gwen  ? I know  this 
will  cost  you  a great  deal,  but  you  are  a brave  girl  and 
will  bear  it;  and  don’t  reproach  me — I could  not  bear 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  173 


your  reproaches.  I am  a scoundrel  and  I know  it,  a 
ruffian,  or  I should  love  you  beyond  all  things,  as  I 
ought.  J. 

XVIII. 

SHE. 

August  25th. 

Hold  you  to  it  when  you  want  to  be  free  ? I would 
not  be  so  much  of  a cobweb.  Thank  God  that  in  your 
letter  you  were  able  at  least  to  say  that  you  had  loved 
me.  Reproach  you?  Why  should  I?  Men  are  differ- 
ent from  women — it  is  not  for  women  to  judge  them. 
Besides,  I love  you — I say  it  once  more  for  this  last  time  on 
earth — so  much  and  so  truly  that  I cannot  be  angry, 
much  less  reproachful.  Go,  and  be  happy,  my  darling. 
God  bless  you,  and  good-bye.  Gwen. 

XIX. 

HE. 

(A  MONTH  LATER.) 

September  25th . 

I believe  I ought  to  ask  you  for  my  letters  back. 
Will  you  send  them,  or  write  and  say  that  you  have 
burned  them  ? — which  you  prefer.  Forgive  me  for 
troubling  you.  J.  F. 

P.  S. — I was  so  sorry  to  hear  through  the  Markhams 
that  you  had  been  ill. 

XX. 

SHE. 

Hampstead,  September  2jth. 

I send  back  your  letters,  and  your  ring,  and  other 
things.  I ought  to  have  sent  them  before,  but  I could 


174  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

not.  I am  glad  you  asked  for  them.  Thank  you,  I am 
better ; and  to-morrow  we  start  for  Montreux,  and  stay 
there  through  the  winter ; perhaps  much  longer. 

Yours,  G.  W. 

XXI. 

HE. 

(A  YEAR  LATER.) 

London,  July  jOth. 

My  Dear  Gwen — (Forgive  me,  but  I cannot  bring 
myself  to  address  you  any  more  formally) — I saw  your 
dear  mother’s  death  in  the  paper,  yesterday.  You  have 
not  been  out  of  my  thoughts  since.  Perhaps  I ought  not 
to  write  to  you,  but  I can’t  help  telling  you  how  grieved 
I am  for  all  that  you  must  be  suffering.  It  seems  so 
rough  that  you  should  be  left  alone  in  the  world.  I 
heard  that  your  Aunt  Mary  was  with  you,  and  I hope 
that  you  may  be  going  to  live  with  her ; but  probably 
you  are  not  able  yet  to  think  of  your  future. 

Of  course  I do  not  know  if  you  are  coming  back  to 
England  soon  ; but  if  not,  and  there  is  anything  I could 
get  or  do  for  you  over  here,  or  anything  I could  do  for 
you  at  any  time,  I can’t  tell  you  what  a privilege  I 
should  think  it.  This  is  not  time  to  say  it,  perhaps, 
but  I respect  no  woman  on  earth  as  I do  you,  and  I 
should  think  it  the  greatest  honor  to  be  of  service  to 
you.  I dare  not  hope  that  you  will  send  me  any  reply 
to  this,  still  less  that  you  ever  think  of  me  kindly.  But 
do  believe  how  true  is  my  sympathy.  Yours  always, 

J.  F. 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  175 


XXII. 

SHE. 

Glion,  August  5th. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter;  Yes  my  dear  mother  is 
gone ; it  seems  so  strange  and  still  without  her.  I sit 
and  stare  into  an  empty  world.  Thank  you ; but  there 
is  nothing  you  can  do  for  me.  I always  think  of  you 
kindly.  Why  should  I not  do  so  ? 

I am  going  to  live  with  Aunt  Mary.  My  mother 
arranged  it  all.  We  are  not  coming  back  to  England 
yet ; we  stay  here  a little  time,  then  go  down  to  Mont- 
reux  again  for  winter.  Yours,  G.  W. 

XXIII. 

HE. 

(SIX  MONTHS  LATER.) 

February  1st. 

I don’t  know  how  I am  going  to  write  to  you ; I have 
been  longing  to  do  it  for  months  past  and  not  daring. 

It  will  be  better  to  plunge  at  once.  Gwennie,  could 
you  forgive  me  and  take  me  back  ? I should  not  be  mad 
enough  to  think  it  possible,  but  that  I know  you  to  be 
the  dearest  girl  on  earth,  and  the  most  constant.  You 
did  love  me  once,  and  though  perhaps  you  will  only 
laugh  at  my  audacity,  deep  down  in  my  heart  something 
tells  me  that  you  care  for  me  a little  bit  still,  or  at  least 
that  you  could  care  for  me  again.  I remember  you  say- 
ing in  one  of  your  last  letters  that  the  time  had  passed 
for  make-believes  between  us ; and  if  in  spite  of  all, 
you  have  any  feeling  left  for  me,  I know  that  you  will 


176  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


tell  me  frankly  and  truly  just  as  a less  noble  woman 
would  hide  it. 

I have  often  wondered  how  I could  throw  away  a love 
like  yours.  I must  have  been  mad.  I know  now  what 
it  is,  having  once  had  it,  to  be  without  it.  You  are  far 
more  to  me  than  you  were  in  the  old  days — far  more 
than  any  words  can  tell.  I am  always  thinking  of  you 
— you  are  never  out  of  my  thoughts.  Oh,  my  darling, 
forgive  me  and  take  me  back  ! Longing  for  a word  from 
you,  yet  hardly  daring  to  hope — I am  yours,  loving  you. 


SHE. 

February  3rd. 

Yes,  I am  just  the  same.  I never  loved  any  one  but 
you,  and  I have  not  left  off  loving  you.  I think  I have 
known  that  you  would  come  back  to  me.  It  feels  like 
finding  my  way  home,  just  when  all  the  world  was  at  an 
end.  You  do  not  know  what  anguish  I have  suffered 
and  how  I have  tried  to  be  brave ; but  without  you, 
without  my  mother — O God  ! But  now  some  light 
seems  to  be  breaking  through  the  darkness. 

Yours  once  more,  Jim,  dear — my  Jim  again. 

Gwen. 

XXV. 

he. 

February  jth. 

My  Sweet  Gwen,  my  own  dear  Girl, — I kissed  your 
little  letter  and  longed  to  kiss  you.  You  are  a million 
times  too  good  for  me,  but  you  shall  be  happy  this  time 
if  I can  make  you  so.  I can’t  believe  that  we  are  all 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  177 


right  again.  I should  like  to  go  down  on  my  knees  and 
ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  all  I did,  only  I am  such  an 
impudent  beggar  that  kneeling  isn’t  much  in  my  line. 

And  when  shall  we  be  married,  my  sweet  ? You  had 
much  better  take  possession  of  me  as  soon  as  possible — 
not  that  there  is  any  fear  of  my  going  astray  any  more, 
but  there’s  nothing  to  wait  for,  is  there  ? When  are 
you  coming  back  from  Montreux  ? Shall  I come  out  and 
fetch  you  ? I should  like  to — in  fact,  I should  rush  off 
this  very  minute  just  to  look  at  your  dear  face  again,  but 
that  I am  rather  in  awe  of  Aunt  Mary — and  I am  rather 
in  awe  of  you,  too,  my  darling — and  half  afraid  of  see- 
ing you  for  the  first  time.  It  is  all  too  good  to  be  true 
— at  least,  it  feels  so  just  yet.  I could  get  away  for  a 
whole  fortnight  in  March,  and  I don’t  think  I can  go 
longer  than  that  without  seeing  you.  It  is  horrible  to 
remember  all  the  months  in  which  we  have  been  apart. 
Let  us  be  together  now,  and  forever,  as  soon  as  it  is  pos- 
sible. We  will  be  so  happy,  the  fates  won’t  know  us. 

Your  happy  and  devoted  Jim. 

XXVI. 

SHE. 

February  12th . 

Dear, — Your  letter  almost  made  me  laugh — it  was 
just  like  you. 

It  is  very  strange  to  sit  down  and  write  to  you  again 
and  to  know  that  all  is  right  between  us.  I don’t  real- 
ize it  yet ; but  I shall  soon,  I suppose.  Now,  I feel  as 
if  I were  inside  a dream,  groping  about,  trying  to  find 
my  way  into  the  waking  world  and  half  fearing  that 
12 


178  LOVEl  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN, 

there  it  would  be  different.  But  life  has  become  a rest- 
ful thing  again  ; some  of  the  aching  loneliness  seems  to 
have  been  swept  out  of  my  heart — not  all,  for  I miss  my 
dear  mother  terribly,  and  keep  longing  to  tell  her  about 
this ; it  chokes  me  to  think  she  cannot  hear,  that,  per- 
haps, she  does  not  know. 

My  dear  old  Jim,  how  glad  I am  to  come  back  to  you 
and  to  be  loved  again  ! In  my  thoughts  I listen  to  the 
sound  of  your  laughter,  and  see  your  face,  and  hear  your 
quick  footstep.  I shall  laugh,  too,  presently,  but  now  I 
am  still  too  much  crushed  by  the  remembrance  of  the 
past  months,  as  well  as  overcome  by  this  great  happiness, 
to  do  anything  but  be  very  grave  and  silent.  Soon  I 
shall  grow  used  to  it,  and  shake  my  bells  again.  For 
some  strange  reason  I don’t  want  you  to  come  just  yet. 
I am  afraid  of  you,  too,  and  yet  I long  to  see  and  hear 
and  know,  not  merely  dream,  as  I half  do  still,  that  you 
love  me  again,  and  that  all  the  old  life  is  going  to  begin 
once  more.  But  come  in  March  ; Aunt  Mary  talks  of 
going  back  to  England  in  April. 

We  must  not  be  married  just  yet,  not  till  the  summer 
is  over,  till  the  year  is  past — till  I am  your  frivolous 
Gwennie  again,  instead  of  a grave  person  in  a sober 
black  gown.  Dear  Jim,  I begin  to  think  how  wonderful 
it  will  be  to  be  with  you  all  my  life,  to  do  things  for  you, 
to  fetch  and  carry  and  be  useful.  A woman’s  hands 
always  long  to  be  busy  for  those  she  loves  ; since  mother 
died  mine  have  been  idle — they  are  waiting  for  you.  If 
I could  only  get  rid  of  the  tiredness  that  is  still  in  my 
heart  and  soul — but  I shall  when  I am  with  you.  We 
will  read  and  talk  and  think,  and  take  long  walks  to- 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 179 

gether — all  this  will  make  me  strong  again.  We  will  be- 
gin when  you  come  here — to  this  beautiful  place.  The 
snow  is  on  the  mountains  white  and  thick,  and  the  lake 
is  blue.  When  the  sun  shines  I wonder  if  heaven  itself 
can  be  much  better.  Good  night,  dear  Jim. 

Your  Gwen. 

XXVII. 

HE. 

February  iyth. 

All  right,  my  darling,  I will  come  in  March  ! I can 
hardly  believe  that  I am  going  to  see  you  again  so  soon ; 
and  oh,  Gwennie,  it  is  good  to  feel  that  you  are  mine 
again.  You  dear  wifely  thing,  to  plan  how  you  will  take 
care  of  me  with  your  two  sweet  hands.  I want  you  to 
have  your  ring  back,  my  precious  one;  I shall  bring  it 
with  me  and  put  it  on  your  finger. 

I have  been  considering  ways  and  means.  Do  you 
know  that  I am  growing  rich,  and  can  give  you  many 
more  luxuries  and  pretty  frocks  and  things  than  I could 
have  managed  before  ? What  do  you  say  to  a flat  to  be- 
gin with,  somewhere  on  the  right  side  of  the  park,  not 
too  far  from  the  Club?  My  mother  had  one  last  year 
for  a few  months,  and  said  it  was  much  better  and  less 
trouble  than  a house. 

Have  you  had  a new  photograph  taken  lately  ? I want 
to  see  if  your  face  looks  just  the  same,  and  what  you  have 
done  with  your  dimple.  I don’t  like  to  think  of  you  in 
a black  gown,  my  poor  darling ; you  must  try  and  put  it 
off  as  soon  as  you  can.  I want  to  see  you  in  the  old 
blue  one,  and  I would  give  anything  to  walk  about  with 


180  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 

M 

you  once  again  in  the  garden  at  Hampstead.  I often 
think  of  your  face  as  it  used  to  look  under  the  trees,  and 
of  how  we  used  to  steal  out  in  the  dusk  by  the  garden 
door,  and  over  the  heath  and  round  by  the  pond.  It  is 
a thousand  times  better  to  think  of  than  your  Swiss 
mountains  and  blue  lake  out  there.  But  I shall  come 
and  see  those  too,  soon,  and  then  I shan’t  be  jealous  of 
them  any  more.  Tell  me  in  your  next  letter  that  you 
love  me,  my  darling  (you  didn’t  in  your  last),  and  that 
I am  just  the  same  to  you  as  you  are  to  me,  only  you  are 
a hundred  times  more — more  and  more  every  day. 

Your  adoring  old  Jim. 

XXVIII. 

SHE. 

February  20th. 

My  dearest  Jim, — I am  just  the  same,  darling,  and  I 
love  you ; but  I have  not  your  wild  spirits ; that  is  all. 
The  past  year  has  sobered  me  down — only  one  year,  as 
time  is  measured,  but  it  has  made  me  many  long  ones 
older. 

I am  glad  you  are  growing  rich ; it  shows  that  the 
world  likes  you.  Yes,  dear,  we  will  have  a flat  if  you 
like  and  where  you  like.  It  would  be  nice  if  we  could 
get  one  somewhere  away  from  noise  and  hurry.  I long 
for  a cosey  room  with  book-shelves  round  it,  and  a li- 
brary that  will  grow  and  grow,  and  prove  that  we  have 
new  books  very  often.  I hope  we  shall  do  heaps  of  read- 
ing, for  I have  become  quite  studious ; you  will  hardly 
know  your  frivolous  sweetheart.  But  the  walks  by  the 
lake  or  along  the  upper  roads  day  after  day,  always  alone 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 181 


amid  the  silences,  have  set  me  thinking.  The  world 
seems  to  have  stretched  out  so  far  and  to  be  so  full  of 
things  it  wants  to  tell  us  if  we  will  but  listen.  I long 
to  talk  about  them  with  you.  We  were  young,  and  so 
much  taken  up  with  ourselves  in  the  old  days  that  we  had 
little  time  to  think  of  all  that  is  most  to  us — after  love. 

You  shall  not  scoff  at  this  lovely  place,  you  dear,  bad 
person.  I long  to  take  you  up  to  Les  Avants,  and  over 
the  way  to  Savoy,  and  to  make  you  look  towards  the 
Rhone  Valley — there  at  the  head  of  the  lake  with  the 
mountains  on  either  side  forming  a gateway.  I made  a 
dozen  romances  about  the  far,  far  off  in  which  the  valley 
ends  almost  at  the  feet  of  Italy,  till  the  other  day  when 
I was  sadly  taken  down  by  Uncle  Alfred  who  was  here. 
I told  him  of  all  the  mysteries  and  fairy  stories  that 
seemed  to  be  lurking  in  the  valley,  and  he  laughed  and 
said  there  was  none  there ; it  was  only  very  long  and 
very  uninteresting,  and  might  be  described  as  Switzer- 
land run  to  seed.  I see  it  with  such  different  eyes ; but 
then  they  are  not  the  eyes  that  are  in  my  head.  People 
say  that  Death  is  a scene-shifter ; and  so  is  every  new 
experience.  Experience  has  made  all  things  look  differ- 
ent to  me ; only  those  that  are  in  my  memory  remain 
the  same,  all  that  I actually  see  and  hear  have  changed. 

Are  you  fond  of  the  world,  Jim,  and  do  you  think 
much  about  it  ? It  seems  such  an  absurd  question,  and 
yet  it  is  not.  I mean  the  world  in  itself.  I have  learned 
to  see  that  it  is  very  beautiful,  and  to  feel  so  reverential 
when  I think  of  all  the  human  feet  that  have  walked 
through  it,  and  all  the  hands  that  have  worked  for  it.  I 
want  to  do  my  share  of  the  work  in  it,  too,  if  it  be  pos- 


182  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


sible  : I should  like  to  make  it  something  beautiful.  A 

little  while  ago  I read  Mazzini ; do  you  remember  that 
he  says  we  ought  to  regard  the  world  as  a workshop  in 
which  we  have  each  to  make  something  good  or  beauti- 
ful with  the  help  of  the  others  ? Iam  not  strong  enough 
to  do  anything  by  myself,  but  if  you  and  I together  could 
ever  do  it,  even  the  least  little  good,  darling,  it  would  be 
something  to  remember  thankfully.  We  would  count  it 
as  our  tribute  in  return  for  each  other’s  love,  which  it 
had  given  us.  Sometimes  I have  thought  that  the  world 
is  like  a great  bank  into  which  we  put  good  and  evil,  joy 
and  sorrow,  for  all  the  coming  generations  to  draw  upon. 
We  won’t  leave  them  any  evil  or  sorrow  if  we  can  help 
it,  will  we  ? I should  never  have  done  anything  by  my- 
self save  brood  and  dream ; but  now  it  seems  as  if  a 
door  is  opening  and  we  shall  go  through  together  to  find 
a hundred  things  that  we  must  do.  I am  so  ambitious 
for  you,  Jim.  I want  you  to  do  and  be  so  much  ; and 
nothing  achieved  will  ever  seem  enough  or  wholly  satisfy 
me.  I want  you  to  climb  the  heavenly  heights,  my  dar- 
ling, not  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  in  work  and  deeds. 
Do  you  understand  ? Oh,  how  I pray  that  you  do  ! 

I am  half  ashamed  to  write  all  this  to  you.  But  so 
many  things  have  crept  into  my  heart  and  soul  in  these 
long  months,  and  between  the  hours  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
and  I do  not  want  you  to  be  a stranger  among  thoughts 
and  longings  I never  expected  to  put  into  words.  I wish 
I knew  of  the  things  that  you  think  about,  in  the  inner 
life  that  most  of  us  live  silently,  and  seldom  speak  of  at 
all.  We  only  can  speak  of  them  to  the  one  person  we 
love  best,  or  to  some  strange  being  we  may  not  even  love, 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  183 

but  that  our  soul  seems  to  recognize  as  if  it  had  found 
one  it  had  known  centuries  before,  or  in  some  shadowy 
dream-land  of  which  it  could  not  give  account.  There 
.are  many  walls  of  silences  to  break  down  between  us, 
and  many  things  on  which  we  must  build  together  before 
we  know  each  other  absolutely.  Let  us  try  to  begin  at 
once.  Oh,  Jim,  don’t  laugh  at  me  for  writing  all  this  ! 
Remember  I have  only  you  in  the  wide  world  now.  I 
love  my  mother  still;  I ache  and  long  for  her,  but  it  is 
a different  love  from  that  which  is  given  to  the  living — 
it  is  more  like  religion.  I cannot  hear  her  voice,  or  see 
her  face ; my  hands  cannot  touch  her : I have  only  you 

now  in  my  human  life.  And  it  is  a blessed  rest,  dar- 
ling, to  have  your  love  again.  I think  I was  dying  of 
tiredness  ; but  now  I shall  grow  very  strong — strong  to 
love  you,  dear.  Always  your  Gwen. 

XXIX. 

HE. 

February  25th. 

You  are  a dear,  sweet,  beloved  child;  but  don’t  let 
us  dischss  heaven  and  earth  and  the  musical  glasses  in 
our  love-letters— just  yet  at  any  rate.  No  doubt  we  shall 
come  to  it  in  time  and  double  dummy  too ; but  let  us 
wait  our  turn.  Tell  me  you  love  me  again.  I shall 
never  get  tired  of  hearing  that ; and  in  your  next  letter 
could  you  not  say,  “I  send  you  a kiss,  Jim,”  then  I 
shall  know  it  really  is  all  right.  I send  you  a thousand, 
just  like  Mary  Jane  the  cook’s  young  man. 

I want  to  see  you  so  much,  you  precious  thing,  that  I 
am  going  to  rush  to  you  next  week.  Then  we  can  go  to 


184  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

Savoy  and  Les  Avants  and  anywhere  else  you  please.  I 
shan’t  mind  how  long  the  walks  are,  or  how  lonely. 
You  can  bet  we  won’t  talk  very  big  talk,  but  we’ll  be 
happier  than  any  two  people  have  been  since  Adam  and 
Eve  before  they  let  the  serpent  in.  I can’t  live  any 
longer  without  seeing  your  dear  face,  and  I think  of 
starting  on  Tuesday.  Shall  I be  welcome? — say,  you 
gypsy.  You  will  only  just  have  time  to  send  one  more 
letter  before  I start ; make  it  a nice  one,  my  sweet. 

Your  devoted  Jim. 

XXX. 

SHE. 

February  27th. 

Dearest, — You  would  have  been  welcome,  but  all 
our  arrangements  are  suddenly  altered.  Aunt  Mary  has 
some  important  business,  and  we  start  for  England  to- 
morrow. We  arrive  on  Wednesday  morning.  Isn’t  this 
good  news,  old  dear?  I am  so  glad  that  I don’t  want 
to  talk  about  anything  but  happiness  now — not  even  of 
heaven  and  earth  and  the  musical  glasses.  I am  afraid 
of  myself — of  my  two  feet  that  will  walk  towards  you, 
and  my  two  eyes  that  will  see  you,  and  my  ears  that  will 
hear  you.  I love  you,  and  you  know  it.  Good-bye  till 
we  meet.  I will  telegraph  from  Dover. 

Your  own  Gwen. 

P.  S. — Oh,  but  I can’t,  I am  shy ; and  it’s  so  long 
since — 

XXXI. 

(three  weeks  later.) 

Bryanston  St.,  March  26th . 

Dearest  Jim, — Don’t  come  this  evening;  there  are 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  185 


so  many  things  to  look  through ; I must  begin  them  in- 
deed. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter ; you  are  very  good  to  me, 
dear.  Gwen. 

XXXII. 

HE. 

March  2jth. 

Very  well,  my  darling,  I’ll  wait  till  to-morrow.  Is 
anything  the  matter  with  you,  sweet?  It  is  odd,  but 
since  the  first  rush  of  meeting  you  have  seemed  so  grave, 
and  there  is  a little  stately  reserve  that  clings  to  you  and 
makes  me  feel  out  in  the  cold.  I cannot  even  guess  of 
what  you  are  thinking : before  I always  knew  without 
your  telling  me.  Don’t  be  like  that  with  me,  dear  one. 
Let  us  be  just  as  we  were  in  the  old  days.  I love  you 
ten  times  more  than  I used,  and  there  is  something  sad 
in  your  face  that  makes  me  loathe  myself  for  all  the  pain 
I once  caused  you.  You  have  forgiven  me,  haven’t  you, 
my  darling  ? I was  a brute,  but  I know  it ; and  I love 
you  with  all  my  heart.  Your  devoted  Jim. 

XXXIII. 

SHE. 

April  2d. 

Dearest  Jim, — I am  sorry,  but  I can’t  go  to  the 
National  Gallery  to-morrow.  Aunt  Mary  wants  me  to 
help  her  a good  deal  just  now.  We  think  of  going  to 
Torquay  for  a little  bit.  This  English  wind  is  very  cut- 
ting. 

Thank  you,  dearie,  for  the  magazines  and  the  flowers. 
You  are  much  too  good  to  me;  I often  think  that. 

Gwen. 


186  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


XXXIV. 


HE. 

April  4th. 

My  Darling, — What  is  the  matter?  You  are  always 
making  excuses  now ; don’t  you  care  about  seeing  me  ? 
Have  I offended  you  ? Send  me  one  line.  My  love  for 
you  has  grown  through  all  the  months  you  were  away, 
but  I can’t  help  fearing  that  yours  for  me  has  waned. 

Jim. 

XXXV. 

SHE. 

April  6th. 

Yes,  Jim  dear,  I care  about  seeing  you,  of  course  ; but 
I have  so  [many  things  to  think  about.  Aunt  Mary’s 
cough  is  much  worse,  and  we  have  decided  to  go  off  to 
Torquay  at  once.  We  shall  be  gone  by  the  time  you  get 
this.  I am  so  sorry  not  to  have  seen  you  again,  but  we 
shall  be  back  in  a fortnight  if  it  is  warmer.  Oh,  Jim 
dear,  once  more  you  are  too  good  to  me  ! Why  have 
you  sent  me  that  packet. 

Your  grateful  Gwen. 

XXXVI. 

SHE 

(A  Telegram .) 


The  address  is  Belle  Vue,  Torquay, 
ter : will  write  to-morrow. 


April  8th. 
Aunt  Mary  bet- 


XXXVII. 

HE. 


Gwen,  Dear, — This  can’t 


London,  April  8th. 
go  on.  Things  are  all 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  187 


wrong  between  us.  I felt  it  even  the  first  evening  you 
came  back.  What  is  the  matter  ? Do  tell  me,  my 
darling.  Is  it  anything  that  I have  said  or  done.  With 
greater  love  than  words  can  tell. 

Your  miserable  old  Jim. 

XXXVIII. 

SHE. 

(. A Telegram.) 

April  loth. 

Will  write  to-morrow.  It  is  very  difficult.  Have 
been  thinking  day  and  night  what  to  say,  but  you  shall 
hear  without  fail  to-morrow. 

XXXIX. 

SHE. 

Torquay,  April  nth. 

Jim, — I am  miserable  too,  more  miserable  than  words 
can  say.  I want  you  to  do  for  me  what  I did  for  you 
before — to  set  me  free  and  let  me  go.  I have  struggled 
against  it,  tried,  reasoned  with  myself,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  It  is  no  use  disguising  the  truth  cost  you  or 
me  what  it  may.  I am  changed  but  I cannot  tell  why 
nor  how,  only  that  it  is  so.  Dear  Jim,  forgive  me,  I 
entreat  you,  and  let  me  go.  Gwen. 

XL. 

HE. 

London,  April  12th. 

Dearest, — But  there  must  be  some  meaning  to  this. 
Write  and  tell  me  what  it  is.  You  must  care  for  me  still, 
darling ; you  could  not  have  been  true  to  me  all  this 
time  if  you  could  change  so  easily.  Write  and  tell  me 


188  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN . 


what  has  come  over  you.  Perhaps  it  is  something  that  I 
can  explain  away ; I cannot  bear  to  let  you  go.  Speak 
out,  I implore  you,  darling.  Jim. 

XLI. 

SHE. 

Torquay,  April  13th. 

I do  not  know  what  has  come  over  me.  I do  care 
for  you,  but  I think  it  is  simple  affection  or  friendship 
that  I feel — I am  not  in  love  any  more.  I did  not  know 
it  at  Montreux.  Every  day  since  we  parted  I had  lived 
in  the  memory  of  your  love.  I thought  I was  just  the 
same,  and  never  dreamed  of  change  till  after  we  came 
back — then  I found  it  out.  All  the  life,  all  the  reality,  all 
the  sunshine,  seem  to  have  gone  out  of  my  love  for  you. 
I used  to  feel  my  heart  beat  quick  when  you  came ; now 
it  does  not.  I used  to  hear  your  footstep  with  a start  of 
joy  ; it  is  nothing  to  me  now  ; I listen  to  it  curiously,  or 
with  a little  dismay.  I am  not  eager  when  you  come, 
and  cannot  make  myself  so  ! I never  go  forward  to  meet 
you.  Have  you  not  noticed  how  I stand  still  on  the  hearth- 
rug as  you  enter?  Something  holds  me  there  with  a 
sense  of  guilty  coldness  in  my  heart.  Have  you  not  felt 
the  silence  fall  between  us  when  we  try  to  talk?  We 
have  nothing  to  say;  and  while  we  sit  and  stare  at  each 
other  my  soul  seems  to  be  far  off,  living  another  life.  It 
is  almost  a relief  when  you  go;  yet  I dread  the  tender- 
ness of  your  good-bye.  I used  to  think  of  home  to- 
gether as  the  dearest  life ; now  I wonder  how  we  should 
drag  through  the  days.  There  are  places  I want  to  see, 
things  I want  to  do,  plans  to  think  over,  books  to  read : 
and  between  all  these  you  seem  to  stand  like  a fate.  It 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  189 


is  my  fault — all,  all.  You  are  just  the  same,  but  I am 
different ; and  I can’t  marry  you,  Jim  ; I can’t  indeed. 
I know  the  pain  I am  costing  you  ; did  I not  suffer  it 
through  long,  long  months?  But  believe  that  I have 
tried  to  be  true — tried  and  tried,  dear.  I did  not  dream 
till  we  met  that  only  the  ghost  of  the  old  love  remained 
— the  memory  of  it,  the  shadow ; that  the  reality  had 
slipped  away ; that  pain  had  quenched  it.  I would  give 
the  wide  world  to  be  once  again  the  girl  who  loved  you, 
who  was  so  merry  and  so  happy,  who  used  to  walk  about 
the  Hampstead  garden  counting  the  minutes  till  you 
came.  But  it  is  no  good.  I am  a woman,  with  only  a 
remembrance  of  the  girl,  and  I am  altogether  different. 
Forgive  me,  dear  Jim;  forgive  me  and  let  me  go. 


HE. 

April  14th. 

My  Darling, — I can’t  do  it ; for  God’s  sake  don’t 
throw  me  over,  for  I can’t  face  it.  It  is  all  fancy,  dear. 
You  have  been  ill  and  strained  and  worried ; you  have 
been  left  too  much  alone ; you  have  grown  too  intro- 
spective; wait,  and  it  will  all  come  right  again.  I love 
you  more  and  more  every  day ; and  after  all  the  months 
in  which  I loved  you,  and  never  dared  to  make  a sign, 
you  won’t  treat  me  like  this?  Think  of  the  days  we 
spent  together  long  ago,  and  the  plans  we  made.  You 
are  not  going  to  chuck  them  all  away  ? I would  do  any- 
thing on  earth  for  you,  and  you  shall  have  my  whole 
life’s  devotion.  Write  and  tell  me  that  you  will  take  it, 
my  darling,  and  bear  with  me,  and  try  to  love  me  again. 


190  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 

I can't  let  you  go,  Gwen.  It’s  no  good,  I can’t  face  it. 

Your  adoring  and  devoted  and  miserable  old  Jim. 

XLI1I. 

SHE. 

v April  15th. 

But,  Jim  dear,  you  must — you  must  set  me  free.  I 
•can’t  go  on ; it  is  not  that  I am  strained  or  morbid  or 
too  introspective,  or  anything  of  the  sort^  only  this — I 
can’t  marry  you,  and  I can’t.  Sorrow  and  loneliness 
have  made  me  think,  have  opened  my  eyes  wide,  and 
and  I see  that  we  are  strangers  inwardly,  even  while  out- 
wardly we  are  lovers.  You  loved  me  at  Hampstead  for 
my  laughter,  my  love  of  you,  my  big  hat,  the  shady 
garden,  my  gladness  to  be  loved — for  a hundred  things 
that  do  not  belong  to  the  life  that  is  mine  now.  So,  too, 
I loved  you  back,  because  of  your  merry  voice,  your 
handsomeness,  your  love  of  me — because  of  the  holiday- 
time we  made  of  life  when  we  were  together.  But  that 
time  is  over  for  ever  and  ever.  You  cannot  give  me 
back  my  laughter,  my  girlhood,  the  happiness  that 
almost  frightened  me;  they  are  gone,  they  will  never 
find  their  way  to  me  again  ; and  my  love  for  you  was 
bound  up  with  them — it  has  gone,  too.  Sometimes  my 
heart  cries  out,  longing  for  its  old  feelings  again,  till  I 
feel  like  Faust  before  he  conjured  Mephistopheles  to  him, 
save  for  his  years — the  actual  years  that  time  doles  out; 
or  like  a Hindoo  for  whom  the  time  has  come  to  vanish 
into  the  forest  and  dream.  Only  twenty-three,  Jim,  but 
youth  has  gone ; you  cannot  have  back  the  girl  who 
laughed  and  loved  you  so — she  does  not  exist ; parting 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN.  191 

and  silence  killed  her.  It  sounds  like  a reproach,  but 
God  knows  it  is  not  one.  And  no  new  feelings  have 
grown  up  to  take  the  place  of  the  old  ones  that  are  dead. 
We  are  almost  strangers,  and  I cannot  reconcile  myself 
to  the  thought  of  our  being  more  than  friends.  I even 
shrink  from  you  and  shudder.  Your  laughter  does  not 
gladden  me ; your  talk  does  not  hold  my  senses  any 
longer  ; and  concerning  the  things  of  which  I think  most 
my  lips  cf  themselves  refuse  to  speak. 

The  very  ring  on  my  finger  frets  and  worries  me.  In 
the  old  days  I used  to  kiss  it,  and  wish  it  hurt  me,  that 
it  burned  or  bit,  so  that  I might  feel  through  pain,  as 
through  all  things,  the  joy  of  loving  you.  But  now  I 
turn  and  twist  it  round  as  a prisoner  does  his  fetter, 
longing,  yet  afraid,  as  he  is  unable  to  shake  it  off,  till 
you  shall  give  me  leave  and  set  me  free. 

You  can’t  marry  me,  Jim  dear,  feeling  as  I do  now. 
It  would  be  madness.  It  is  of  no  use  making  our  whole 
lives  a failure,  or  a tragedy,  because  we  have  not  the 
courage  to  face  the  pain  of  parting  now.  If  I thought 
you  would  be  happy  with  me  I would  hesitate,  but  we 
should  neither  of  us  be  happy.  And  it  is  not  as  if  this 
were  a passing  phase ; I know  that  it  is  not.  I live  in 
another  world  from  you  now.  I do  not  know  if  it  is  better 
or  worse,  only  that  it  is  different;  it  seems  as  if  in  the 
past  months  a hand  was  stretched  out ; I took  it  and 
went  on,  almost  dazed — on  and  on  while  you  stood  still. 
I am  going  farther,  and  shall  never  return,  but  you  will 
be  in  the  world  behind  me.  There  may  be  happiness 
for  me,  and  life  and  love  once  more ; I do  not  know ; 
but  it  will  be  far,  far  off,  away  from  you.  Between  us 


192  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A WORLDLY  WOMAN. 


all  things  have  finished.  I cannot  turn  and  go  back  into 
the  old  year,  the  old  love,  the  old  life ; I have  passed 
them  all  by  for  good  or  ill.  Oh,  Jim  understand  and 
let  me  go  ! forgive  me  all  the  pain  I have  cost  you,  and 
let  me  go.  Gwen. 

XLIV. 


HE. 


April  ijth. 

All  right — go.  I thought  you  the  most  constant  girl 
on  earth  : that  you  loved  me  as  I do  you.  Since  it 
pleases  you  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  me,  let  it  be  so. 
My  feelings,  of  course,  are  of  no  account  weighed 
against  your  fancies.  You  have  shaken  all  my  faith  in 
women ; for  I did  believe  in  you,  Gwen.  Good-bye, 

Jim. 


XLV. 


SHE. 

(A  WEEK  LATER.) 

April  22d. 

I send  back  your  letters  and  things  once  more — it  is 
better  to  get  it  over.  Return  mine  or  burn  them  as  you 
please.  Aunt  Mary  cannot  stand  this  English  climate, 
and  we  start  almost  immediately  for  Italy;  probably  to 
live  there  altogether.  I think  it  will  be  a relief  to  you  to 
know  this.  I hope  with  all  my  heart  that  you  will  soon 
forget  the  pain  I have  given  you,  that  all  good  things  may 
come  to  you ; and  one  day  I hope  that  you  will  marry 
some  one  who  will  make  you  happy,  and  love  you  as  I 
did  long  ago  in  the  dear  days  at  Hampstead. 

Good-bye,  Gwen. 


THE  END. 


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